For Robin Rue,

fearless agent and true friend

Books by Sarah J. Maas

The Throne of Glass series

The Assassin’s Blade Throne of Glass

Crown of Midnight

Heir of Fire

Queen of Shadows

Empire of Storms

Tower of Dawn

Kingdom of Ash

•

The Throne of Glass Colouring Book

The Court of Thorns and Roses series

A Court of Thorns and Roses A Court of Mist and Fury A Court of Wings

and Ruin A Court of Frost and Starlight A Court of Silver Flames •

A Court of Thorns and Roses Colouring Book

The Crescent City series

House of Earth and Blood House of Sky and Breath

CONTENTS

Map

Prologue

Part I. The Chasm

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

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

Part II. The Abyss

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

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

Part III. The Pit

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

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

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.

PROLOGUE

Sofie had survived in the Kavalla death camp for two weeks.

Two weeks, and still the guards—dreadwolves, all of them—had not

sniffed her out. Everything had gone according to plan. The reek of the days crammed into the cattle car had covered the telltale scent in her blood. It had also veiled her when they’d marched her and the others between the brick buildings of the camp, this new Hel that was only a small model of what the Asteri planned to do if the war continued.

Two weeks here, and that reek had become etched into her very skin,

blinding even the wolves’ keen noses. She’d stood mere feet from a guard in the breakfast line this morning and he hadn’t so much as sniffed in her direction.

A small victory. One she’d gladly take these days.

Half of the Ophion rebel bases had fallen. More would soon. But only

two places existed for her now: here, and the port of Servast, her destination tonight. Alone, even on foot, she could have easily made it. A rare benefit of being able to switch between human and Vanir identities—and of being a rare human who’d made the Drop.

It technically made her Vanir. Granted her a long life span and all the

benefits that came from it that her human family did not and would never have. She might not have bothered to make the Drop had her parents not encouraged it—with the healing abilities she would gain, it provided extra armor in a world designed to kill her kind. So she’d done it under the radar, in a back-alley, highly illegal Drop center, where a leering satyr had been her Anchor, and handing over her firstlight had been the cost of the ritual.

She’d spent the years since then learning to wear her humanity like a cloak, inside and out. She might have all the traits of the Vanir, but she’d never be Vanir. Not in her heart, her soul.

Yet tonight … tonight, Sofie did not mind letting a little of the monster

loose.

It would not be an easy journey, thanks to the dozen small forms

crouched behind her in the mud before the barbed-wire fence.

Five boys and six girls gathered by her thirteen-year-old brother, who

now stood watch over them like a shepherd with his flock. Emile had gotten all of them out of the bunks, aided by a gentle human sun-priest, who was currently serving as lookout at the shed ten yards away.

The children were gray-skinned, gaunt. Eyes too big, too hopeless.

Sofie didn’t need to know their stories. They were likely the same as

hers: rebel human parents who’d either been caught or sold out. Hers had been the latter.

Pure dumb luck had kept Sofie out of the dreadwolves’ clutches, too—

at least until now. Three years ago, she’d been studying late at the university library with her friends. Arriving home after midnight, she’d spied the broken windows and shattered front door, the spray paint on the siding of their ordinary suburban house—REBEL SHITS—and begun running. She could only credit Urd for the fact that the dreadwolf guard posted at the front door hadn’t seen her.

Later, she’d managed to confirm that her parents were dead. Tortured

until the brutal end by the Hind or her elite squadron of dreadwolf interrogators. The report Sofie spent months working her way up through Ophion to attain had also revealed that her grandparents had been herded off upon reaching the Bracchus camp in the north, and shot in a lineup of other elders, their bodies left to crumple into a mass grave.

And her brother … Sofie hadn’t been able to find anything on Emile

until now. For years, she’d been working with the Ophion rebels in exchange for any snippet of information about him, about her family. She didn’t let herself think about what she’d done in return for that information.

The spying, the people she’d killed to collect whatever intel Ophion wanted —these things weighed on her soul like a leaden cloak.

But she’d finally done enough for Ophion that they’d informed her

Emile had been sent here, and survived against all odds. At last, she had a

location for him. Convincing Command to let her come here … that had been another labyrinth to navigate.

In the end, it had required Pippa’s support. Command listened to Pippa,

their faithful and fervent soldier, leader of the elite Lightfall unit. Especially now that Ophion’s numbers had taken such steep hits. Sort-of-human Sofie, on the other hand … She knew she was an asset, but with the Vanir blood in her veins, they’d never fully trust her. So she occasionally needed Pippa.

Just as much as Pippa’s Lightfall missions had needed Sofie’s powers.

Pippa’s help hadn’t been due to friendship. Sofie was fairly certain that

friends didn’t exist within the Ophion rebel network. But Pippa was an opportunist—and she knew what she stood to gain should this op go smoothly, the doors that would further open to her within Command if Sofie returned triumphant.

A week after Command had approved the plan, over three years after

her family had been snatched from their home, Sofie walked into Kavalla.

She’d waited until a local dreadwolf patrol was marching by and

stumbled into their path, a mere mile from here. They immediately found the fake rebel documents she’d planted in her coat. They had no idea that Sofie also carried with her, hidden in her head, information that could very well be the final piece of this war against the Asteri.

The blow that could end it.

Ophion had found out too late that before she’d gone into Kavalla,

she’d finally accomplished the mission she’d spent years preparing for.

She’d made sure before she was picked up that Pippa and Ophion knew she’d acquired that intel. Now they wouldn’t back out of their promises to retrieve her and Emile. She knew there would be Hel to pay for it—that she’d gone in secret to gather the information, and was now using it as collateral.

But that would come later.

The dreadwolf patrol interrogated her for two days. Two days, and then

they’d thrown her into the cattle car with the others, convinced she was a foolish human girl who’d been given the documents by a lover who’d used her.

She’d never thought her minor in theater would come in handy. That

she’d hear her favorite professor’s voice critiquing her performance while

someone was ripping out her fingernails. That she’d feign a confession with all the sincerity she’d once brought to the stage.

She wondered if Command knew she’d used those acting abilities on

them, too.

That wasn’t her concern, either. At least, not until tomorrow. Tonight,

all that mattered was the desperate plan that would now come to fruition. If she had not been betrayed, if Command had not realized the truth, then a boat waited twenty miles away to ferry them out of Pangera. She looked down at the children around her and prayed the boat had room for more than the three passengers she’d claimed would be arriving.

She’d spent her first week and a half in Kavalla waiting for a glimpse of

her brother—a hint of where he might be in the sprawling camp. And then, a few days ago, she’d spotted him in the food line. She’d faked a stumble to cover her shock and joy and sorrow.

He’d gotten so tall. As tall as their father. He was all gangly limbs and

bones, a far cry from the healthy thirteen-year-old he should have been, but his face … it was the face she’d grown up with. But beginning to show the first hints of manhood on the horizon.

Tonight, she’d seized her chance to sneak into his bunk. And despite the

three years and the countless miseries they’d endured, he knew her in an instant, too. Sofie would have spirited him away that moment had he not begged her to bring the others.

Now twelve children crouched behind her.

The alarms would be blaring soon. They had different sirens for

everything here, she’d learned. To signal their wake-ups, their meals, random inspections.

A mournful bird’s call fluttered through the low-hanging mist. All clear.

With a silent prayer of thanks to the sun-priest and the god he served,

Sofie lifted her mangled hand to the electrified fence. She did not glance at her missing fingernails, or the welts, or even feel how numb and stiff her hands were, not as the fence’s power crackled through her.

Through her, into her, becoming her. Becoming hers to use as she

wished.

A thought, and the fence’s power turned outward again, her fingertips

sparking where they curled against the metal. The metal turned orange, then red beneath her hand.

She sliced her palm down, skin so blisteringly hot it cleaved metal and

wire. Emile whispered to the others to keep them from crying out, but she heard one of the boys murmur, “Witch.”

A typical human’s fear of those with Vanir gifts—of the females who

held such tremendous power. She did not turn to tell him that it was not a witch’s power that flowed through her. It was something far more rare.

The cold earth met her hand as she rent the last of the fence and peeled

the two flaps apart, barely wide enough for her to fit through. The children edged forward, but she signaled for them to halt, scanning the open dirt beyond. The road separating the camp from the ferns and towering pines lay empty.

But the threat would come from behind. She pivoted toward the

watchtowers at the corners of the camp, which housed guards with sniper rifles forever trained on the road.

Sofie took a breath, and the power she’d sucked from the fence again

shuddered through her. Across the camp, the spotlights ruptured in a shower of sparks that had the guards whirling toward it, shouting.

Sofie peeled the fence apart wider, arms straining, metal biting into her

palms, grunting at the children to run, run, run—

Little shadows, their light gray uniforms tattered and stained and too

bright in the near-full moon, hurried through the fence and across the muddy road to the dense ferns and steep gully beyond. Emile went last, his taller, bony body still a shock to her system, as brutal as any power she could wield.

Sofie did not let herself think of it. She raced after him, weak from the

lack of food, the grueling labor, the soul-draining misery of this place. Mud and rocks cut into her bare feet, but the pain was distant as she took in the dozen pale faces peering from the ferns. “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” she whispered.

The van would wait only so long.

One of the girls swayed as she got to her feet, aiming for the slope

beyond, but Sofie gripped her beneath a bony shoulder, keeping her upright as they staggered along, ferns brushing their legs, roots tangling their feet.

Faster. They had to be faster—

A siren wailed.

This one, Sofie had not heard before. But she knew its blaring screech

for what it was: Escape.

Flashlight beams shot through the trees as Sofie and the children crested

the lip of a hill, half falling into the fern-laden gully. The dreadwolves were in their humanoid forms, then. Good—their eyes weren’t as sharp in the dark this way. Bad, because it meant they carried guns.

Sofie’s breathing hitched, but she focused, and sent her power slicing

behind her. The flashlights went dark. Even firstlight could not stand against her power. Shouting rose—male, vicious.

Sofie hurried to the front of the group and Emile fell to the back to

make sure none were forgotten. Pride swelled in her chest, even as it mingled with terror.

She knew they’d never make it back to the camp alive if they were

caught.

Thighs burning, Sofie sprinted up the steep side of the gully. She didn’t

want to think what the children were enduring, not when their knobbly-kneed legs looked barely able to hold them up. They reached the top of the hill just as the dreadwolves howled, an inhuman sound breaking from humanoid throats. A summons to the hunt.

She pushed the children faster. Mist and ferns and trees and stones— When one of the boys collapsed, Sofie carried him, focusing on the too-

delicate hands gripping the front of her shift.

Hurry, hurry, hurry— And then there was the road, and the van. Agent Silverbow had waited.

She didn’t know his real name. Had refused to let him tell her, though

she had a good idea of what—who—he was. But he’d always be Silver to her. And he had waited.

He’d said he wouldn’t. Had said Ophion would kill him for abandoning

his current mission. Pippa would kill him. Or order one of her Lightfall soldiers to do it.

But he’d come with Sofie, had hidden out these two weeks, until Sofie

had sent forth the ripple of firstlight last night—the one signal she’d dared make with the Vanir prowling the death camp—to tell him to be here in twenty-four hours.

She’d told him not to use his powers. Even if it would’ve made this far

safer and easier, it would have drained him too much for the escape. And

she needed him at full strength now.

In the moonlight, Silver’s face was pale above the imperial uniform

he’d stolen, his hair slicked back like any preening officer. He grimaced at Emile, then at the eleven other kids—clearly calculating how many could fit into the nondescript white van.

“All,” Sofie said as she hurtled for the vehicle, her voice raw. “All,

Silver.”

He understood. He’d always understood her.

He leapt out of the car with preternatural grace and opened the rear

doors. A minute later, squeezed against Silver in the front of the van, his warmth heating her through her threadbare clothes, Sofie could hardly draw breath fast enough as he floored the gas pedal. His thumb brushed over her shoulder, again and again, as if reassuring himself that she was there, that she’d made it.

None of the children spoke. None of them cried.

As the van barreled into the night, Sofie found herself wondering if they

still could.

It took them thirty minutes to reach the port city of Servast.

Sofie leaned on Silver, who saw to it, even while racing down the

bumpy, winding country road, that the children found the food in the bags he’d stashed in the back. Only enough for three, but the children knew how to stretch a scant spread. He made sure Sofie ate, too. Two weeks in that camp had nearly wrecked her. She didn’t understand how these children had survived months. Years. Her brother had survived three years.

Silver said quietly as they rounded a sharp curve, “The Hind is close by.

I received a report this morning that she was in Alcene.” A small city not two hours away—one of the vital depots along the Spine, the north-south network of train tracks that provided ammo and supplies to the imperial troops. “Our spies indicated she was headed this way.”

Sofie’s stomach tightened, but she focused on donning the clothes and

shoes Silver had brought for her to change into. “Then let’s hope we make it to the coast before she does.”

His throat bobbed. She dared ask, “Pippa?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He and Pippa had been jockeying for a

promotion into Command’s inner ranks for years now. A crazed fanatic, Silver had called Pippa on more than one occasion, usually after her Lightfall squadron had led a brutal attack that left no survivors. But Sofie understood Pippa’s devotion—she herself had grown up passing as fully human, after all. Had learned exactly how they were treated—how Pippa had likely been treated by the Vanir her entire life. Some things, some experiences, Silver could never understand.

Silver said, “No word yet. She’d better be where she promised to be.”

Disapproval and distrust laced every word.

Sofie said nothing else as they drove. She wouldn’t tell him the details

of the intelligence she’d gathered, for all that he had done and meant to her, despite the silent hours spent together, bodies and souls merging. She wouldn’t tell anyone—not until Command came through on their promises.

The Asteri had probably realized what she’d discovered. They’d no

doubt sent the Hind after her to stop her from telling anyone else.

But the more immediate threat came from the dreadwolves closing in

with every mile they hurried toward Servast, hounds on a scent. Silver’s frequent glances in the rearview mirror told her that he knew it, too.

The two of them could take on perhaps a handful of wolf shifters—

they’d done so before. But there would be more than a handful for an escape from Kavalla. Far more than they could face and live.

She’d prepared for that eventuality. Had already handed over her

comm-crystal to Command before entering Kavalla. That precious, sole line of communication to their most valued spy. She knew they’d keep the small chunk of quartz safe. Just as Silver would keep Emile safe. He’d given her his word.

When they emerged from the van, mist wreathed the narrow docks of

Servast, writhing over the chill, night-dark waters of the Haldren Sea. It wended around the ancient stone houses of the port town, the firstlight in the few lampposts above the cobblestone streets flickering. No lights shone behind the shuttered windows; not one car or pedestrian moved in the deep shadows and fog.

It was as if the streets of Servast had been emptied in advance of their

arrival. As if its citizens—mostly poor fisher-folk, both human and Vanir

allied with the House of Many Waters—had hunkered down, some instinct bleating that the fog was not to be braved. Not this night.

Not with dreadwolves on the prowl.

Silver led the way, hair peeking from beneath the cap he’d donned, his

attention darting this way and that, his gun within easy reach at his side.

She’d seen him kill efficiently with his power, but sometimes a gun was easier.

Emile kept close to Sofie as they crept down the age-worn streets,

through the empty markets. She could feel eyes on her from behind the closed shutters. But no one opened a door to offer help.

Sofie didn’t care. As long as that boat waited where she’d been told it

would be, the world could go to Hel.

Mercifully, the Bodegraven was idling at the end of a long wooden

dock three blocks ahead, silver letters bright against her black hull. A few firstlights glowed in the small steamer’s portholes, but the decks remained quiet. Emile gasped, as if it were a vision from Luna.

Sofie prayed the other Ophion boats would be waiting beyond the

harbor to provide backup, exactly as Command had promised in return for the valuable asset she’d gone into the camp to retrieve. They hadn’t cared that the valuable asset was her brother. Only what she told them he could do.

She scanned the streets, the docks, the skies.

The power in her veins thrummed in time to her heart. A counter-beat.

A bone-drum, a death knell. A warning.

They had to go now.

She started, but Silver’s broad hand clamped on her shoulder. “They’re here,” he said in his northern accent. With his sharp senses, he

could detect the wolves better than she could.

Sofie surveyed the sloping rooftops, the cobblestones, the fog. “How

close?”

Dread filled Silver’s handsome face. “Everywhere. They’re fucking

everywhere.”

Only three blocks separated them from salvation. Shouts echoed off the

stones a block away. “There! There!”

One heartbeat to decide. One heartbeat—Emile halted, fear bright in his

dark eyes.

No more fear. No more pain.

Sofie hissed at Silver, “Run.” Silver reached for his gun, but she shoved

his hand down, getting in his face. “Get the kids to the boat and go. I’ll hold the wolves off and meet you there.”

Some of the children were already bolting for the dock. Emile waited.

“Run!” she told Silver again. He touched her cheek—the softest of caresses —and sprinted after the children, roaring for the captain to rev the engines.

None of them would survive if they didn’t depart now.

She whirled to Emile. “Get on that boat.” His eyes—their mother’s eyes—widened. “But how will you—” “I promise I will find you again, Emile. Remember all I told you. Go.” When she embraced his lanky, bony body, she let herself inhale one

breath of his scent, the one that lay beneath the acrid layers of dirt and waste from the camp. Then Emile staggered away, half tripping over himself as he marked the lingering power building at her fingertips.

But her brother said softly, “Make them pay.” She closed her eyes, readying herself. Gathering her power. Lights went

out on the block around her. When she opened her eyes to the newfound darkness, Emile had reached the dock. Silver waited at the ramp, beckoning beneath the one streetlight that remained lit. Her stare met Silver’s.

She nodded once—hoping it conveyed all that was within her heart—

and aimed for the dreadwolves’ howls.

Sofie sprinted right into the golden beams of the headlights of four cars emblazoned with the Asteri’s symbol: SPQM and its wreath of seven stars.

All crammed full of dreadwolves in imperial uniforms, guns out.

Sofie instantly spied the golden-haired female lounging in the front of

the military convertible. A silver torque glimmered against her neck.

The Hind.

The deer shifter had two snipers poised beside her in the open-air car,

rifles trained on Sofie. Even in the darkness, Lidia Cervos’s hair shimmered, her beautiful face passive and cold. Amber eyes fixed on Sofie, lit with smug amusement. Triumph.

Sofie whipped around a corner before their shots cracked like thunder.

The snarl of the Hind’s dreadwolves rumbled in the mist behind her as she

charged into Servast proper, away from the harbor. From that ship and the children. From Emile.

Silver couldn’t use his power to get her. He had no idea where she was.

Sofie’s breath sawed out of her chest as she sprinted down the empty,

murky streets. A blast from the boat’s horn blared through the misty night, as if pleading with her to hurry.

In answer, half a dozen unearthly howls rose up behind her. All closing

in.

Some had taken their wolf form, then.

Claws thundered against the pavement nearby, and Sofie gritted her

teeth, cutting down another alley, heading for the one place all the maps she’d studied suggested she might stand a chance. The ship’s horn blasted again, a final warning that it would leave.

If she could only make it a bit deeper into the city—a bit deeper— Fangs gnashed behind her.

Keep moving. Not only away from the Vanir on her tail, but from the

snipers on the ground, waiting for the open shot. From the Hind, who must know what information Sofie bore. Sofie supposed she should be flattered the Hind herself had come to oversee this.

The small market square appeared ahead, and Sofie barreled for the

fountain in its center, punching a line of her power straight for it, shearing through rock and metal until water sprayed, a geyser coating the market square. Wolves splashed into the water as they surged from the surrounding streets, shifting as they cornered her.

In the center of the flooded square, Sofie paused.

The wolves in human forms wore imperial uniforms. Tiny silver darts

glimmered along their collars. A dart for every rebel spy broken. Her stomach flipped. Only one type of dreadwolf had those silver darts. The Hind’s private guard. The most elite of the shifters.

A throaty whistle sounded through the port. A warning and a farewell.

So Sofie leapt onto the lip of the fountain and smiled at the wolves

closing in. They wouldn’t kill her. Not when the Hind was waiting to interrogate her. Too bad they didn’t know what Sofie truly was. Not a human, nor a witch.

She let the power she’d gathered by the docks unspool.

Crackling energy curled at her fingertips and amid the strands of her

short brown hair. One of the dreadwolves understood then—matched what he was seeing with the myths Vanir whispered to their children.

“She’s a fucking thunderbird!” the wolf roared—just as Sofie unleashed

the power she’d gathered on the water flooding the square. On the dreadwolves standing ankle-deep in it.

They didn’t stand a chance.

Sofie pivoted toward the docks as the electricity finished slithering over

the stones, hardly sparing a glance for the smoking, half-submerged carcasses. The silver darts along their collars glowed molten-hot.

Another whistle. She could still make it.

Sofie splashed through the flooded square, breath ragged in her throat.

The dreadwolf had been only half-right. She was part thunderbird—her

great-grandmother had mated with a human long ago, before being executed. The gift, more legend than truth these days, had resurfaced in Sofie.

It was why the rebels had wanted her so badly, why they’d sent her out

on such dangerous missions. Why Pippa had come to value her. Sofie smelled like and could pass for a human, but in her veins lurked an ability that could kill in an instant. The Asteri had long ago hunted most thunderbirds to extinction. She’d never learned how her great-grandmother had survived, but the descendants had kept the bloodline secret. She had kept it secret.

Until that day three years ago when her family had been killed and

taken. When she’d found the nearest Ophion base and showed them exactly what she could do. When she told them what she wanted them to do for her in exchange.

She hated them. Almost as much as she hated the Asteri and the world

they’d built. For three years, Ophion had dangled Emile’s whereabouts above her, promising to find him, to help her free him, if she could do one more mission. Pippa and Silver might believe in the cause, though they differed in their methods of how to fight for it, but Emile had always been Sofie’s cause. A free world would be wonderful. But what did it matter if she had no family to share it with?

So many times, for those rebels, she had drawn up power from the grid,

from lights and machines, and killed and killed, until her soul lay in tatters.

She’d often debated going rogue and finding her brother herself, but she was no spy. She had no network. So she’d stayed, and covertly built up her own bait to dangle before Ophion. Made sure they knew the importance of what she’d gleaned before she entered Kavalla.

Faster, faster she pushed herself toward the dock. If she didn’t make it,

maybe there would be a smaller boat that she could take to the steamer.

Maybe she’d just swim until she was close enough for Silver to spot her, and easily reach her with his power.

Half-crumbling houses and uneven streets passed; fog drifted in veils.

The stretch of wooden dock between Sofie and the steamer pulling

away lay clear. She raced for it.

She could make out Silver on the Bodegraven’s deck, monitoring her

approach. But why didn’t he use his power to reach her? Another few feet closer, and she spied the hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder.

Cthona have mercy on him. Silver didn’t appear badly hurt, but she had

a feeling she knew what kind of bullet he’d been hit with. A bullet with a core of gorsian stone—one that would stifle magic.

His power was useless. But if a sniper had hit Silver on the ship …

Sofie drew up short.

The convertible sat in the shadows of the building across from the

docks. The Hind still lounged like a queen, a sniper beside her with his rifle trained on Sofie. Where the second had gone, she didn’t know. Only this one mattered. This one, and his rifle.

It was likely chock-full of gorsian bullets. They’d bring her down in

seconds.

The Hind’s golden eyes glowed like coals in the dimness. Sofie gauged

the distance to the end of the dock, the rope Silver had thrown down, trailing with every inch the Bodegraven chugged toward the open water.

The Hind inclined her head in challenge. A deceptively calm voice slid

from between her red lips. “Are you faster than a bullet, thunderbird?”

Sofie didn’t wait to banter. As swift as a wind through the fjords of her

native land, she hurtled down the dock. She knew the sniper’s rifle tracked her.

The end of the dock, the dark harbor beyond, loomed.

The rifle cracked.

Silver’s roar cleaved the night before Sofie hit the wood planks,

splinters cutting into her face, the impact ricocheting through one eye. Pain burst through her right thigh, leaving a wake of shredded flesh and shattered bone, so violent it robbed even the scream from her lungs.

Silver’s bellow stopped abruptly—and then he yelled to the captain,

“Go, go, go, go!”

Facedown on the dock, Sofie knew it was bad. She lifted her head,

swallowing her shriek of pain, blood leaking from her nose. The droning hum of an Omega-boat’s energy rocked through her even before she spied the approaching lights beneath the harbor’s surface.

Four imperial submersible warships converged like sharks on the

Bodegraven.

Pippa Spetsos stood aboard the rebel ship Orrae, the Haldren Sea a dark expanse around her. In the distance, the firstlights of the towns along Pangera’s northern coast twinkled like gold stars.

But her attention remained fixed on the gleam of Servast. On the little

light sailing toward them.

The Bodegraven was on time.

Pippa pressed a hand against the cold, hard armor covering her breast,

right above the sinking sun insignia of the Lightfall unit. She would not loose that final breath of relief—not until she saw Sofie. Until she’d secured the assets Sofie carried with her: the boy and the intel.

Then she’d demonstrate to Sofie precisely how Command felt about

being manipulated.

Agent Silverbow, the arrogant bastard, had followed the woman he

loved. She knew the asset Sofie brought with her meant little to him. The fool. But the possibility of the intel that Sofie claimed to have spent years covertly gathering for Ophion … even Silverbow would want that.

Captain Richmond stepped up beside her. “Report,” she ordered.

He’d learned the hard way not to disobey her. Learned exactly who in

Command supported her, and would rain down Hel on her behalf.

Monitoring the approaching vessel, Richmond said, “We’ve made radio contact. Your operative is not on that ship.”

Pippa went still. “The brother?”

“The boy is there. And eleven other children from Kavalla. Sofie Renast

stayed behind to buy them time. I’m sorry.”

Sorry. Pippa had lost track of how many times she’d heard that fucking

word.

But right now … Emile had made it to the ship. Was gaining him worth

losing Sofie?

It was the gamble they’d taken in even allowing Sofie to go into

Kavalla: possibly losing one valuable asset in the quest to seize another. But that was before Sofie had left—and then informed them, right before entering the camp, that she’d attained vital intel on their enemies. To lose Sofie now, with that crucial intel on the line …

She hissed at the captain, “I want—” A human sailor barreled out the glass-enclosed bridge door, skin eerily

pale in the moonlight. He faced the captain, then Pippa, uncertain whom to report to. “The Bodegraven’s got four Omegas on her tail, closing in fast.

Agent Silverbow is down—gorsian bullet to the shoulder.”

Pippa’s blood chilled. Silverbow wouldn’t be any help with a gorsian

bullet in him. “They’re going to sink that ship, rather than let those children go.”

She had not yet become so numb to the horrors of this world that it

didn’t roil her stomach. Captain Richmond swore softly.

Pippa ordered, “Prepare the gunners.” Even if the odds were slim that

they would survive an assault by the Omegas, they could provide a distraction. The captain grunted his agreement. But the sailor who’d come rushing out of the bridge gasped and pointed.

On the horizon, each and every light in Servast was winking out. The

wave of darkness swept inland.

“What in Hel—” “Not Hel,” Pippa murmured as the blackout spread.

Sofie. Or … Her eyes narrowed on the Bodegraven.

Pippa ran for the bridge’s better view. She arrived, panting, Richmond

beside her, in time to see the Bodegraven racing for them—the submerged lights of the four Omega-boats flickering behind, closing in.

But as they did, a mighty white light soared beneath the surface. It

wrapped its long arms around the nearest Omega.

The white light leapt away a moment later, flying for the next boat. No

submersible lights glowed in its wake. On the radar before her, the Omega-boat vanished.

“Holy gods,” Richmond said.

Something like that, Pippa wanted to say. It was Sofie’s strange gift: not

only electricity, but firstlight power, too. Energy of any type was hers to command, to suck into herself. Her kind had been hunted to extinction by the Asteri centuries ago because of that mighty, unconquerable gift—or so it had seemed.

But now there were two of them.

Sofie said her brother’s powers dwarfed her own. Powers Pippa now

witnessed as the light leapt from the second boat—another blackout—and raced for the third.

She could make out no sign of Emile on the Bodegraven’s deck, but he

had to be there.

“What can bring down an Omega with no torpedoes?” murmured one of

the sailors. Closer now, the light swept beneath the surface for the third boat, and even with the distance, Pippa could see the core of long, bright white tendrils streaming from it—like wings.

“An angel?” someone whispered. Pippa scoffed privately. There were

no angels among the few Vanir in Ophion. If Pippa had her way, there’d be no Vanir among them at all … save for ones like this. Vanir powers, but a human soul and body.

Emile was a great prize for the rebellion—Command would be pleased

indeed.

The third Omega submersible went black, vanishing into the inky deep.

Pippa’s blood sang at the terrible glory of it. Only one Omega left.

“Come on,” Pippa breathed. “Come on …” Too much rested on that

boat. The balance of this war might hang on it.

“Two brimstone torpedoes fired from the remaining Omega,” a sailor

shouted.

But the white light slammed into the Omega, miles’ worth of firstlight

sending the final ship spiraling into a watery abyss.

And then a leap outward, a whip of light illuminating the waves above

it to turquoise. A stretching hand.

A sailor reported hoarsely, awe and anticipation in every word,

“Brimstone torpedoes are gone from the radar. Vanished.”

Only the lights of the Bodegraven remained, like dim stars in a sea of

darkness.

“Commander Spetsos?” Richmond asked.

But Pippa ignored Richmond, and stalked into the warmth of the

bridge’s interior, yanking a pair of long-range binoculars from a hook just inside the door. Within seconds, she was out on the wind-whipped deck again, binoculars focused on the Bodegraven.

Emile stood there, aged but definitely the same child from Sofie’s

photos, no more than a lean figure alone at the prow. Staring toward the watery graveyard as they passed over it. Then to the land beyond. He slowly sank to his knees.

Smiling to herself, Pippa shifted the view on the binoculars and gazed

toward the thorough blackness of Pangera.

Lying on her side, the lap of waves against the quay and the drip of her blood on the surface beneath the wooden slats the only sounds she could hear, Sofie waited to die.

Her arm dangled off the end of the dock as the Bodegraven sailed

toward those savior lights on the sea. Toward Pippa. Pippa had brought battleships to guide the Bodegraven to safety. Likely to ensure Sofie was on it, along with Emile, but … Pippa had still come. Ophion had come.

Tears slid along her cheeks, onto the wood slats. Everything hurt.

She’d known this would happen, if she pushed too far, demanded too

much power, as she had tonight. The firstlight always hurt so much worse than electricity. Charred her insides even as it left her craving more of its potent power. It was why she avoided it as much as possible. Why the idea of Emile had been so enticing to Command, to Pippa and her Lightfall squadron.

There was nothing left inside her now. Not one spark of power. And no

one was coming to save her.

Footsteps thudded on the dock, rattling her body. Sofie bit her lip

against the flashing pain.

Polished black boots stopped inches from her nose. Sofie shifted her

good eye upward. The Hind’s pale face peered down.

“Naughty girl,” the Hind said in that fair voice. “Electrocuting my

dreadwolves.” She ran an amber eye over Sofie. “What a remarkable power you have. And what a remarkable power your brother has, downing my Omega-boats. It seems all the legends about your kind are true.”

Sofie said nothing.

The spy-breaker smiled slightly. “Tell me who you passed the intel to,

and I will walk off this dock and let you live. I’ll let you see your darling little brother.”

Sofie said through stiff lips, “No one.” The Hind merely said, “Let’s go for a ride, Sofie Renast.” The dreadwolves bundled Sofie into a nondescript boat. No one spoke

as it sailed out to sea. As an hour passed, and the sky lightened. Only when they were so far from the shore that it was no longer a darker shadow against the night sky did the Hind lift a hand. The engines cut off, and the boat bobbed in the waves.

Again, those polished, knee-high boots approached Sofie. She’d been

bound, gorsian shackles around her wrists to stifle her power. Her leg had gone numb with agony.

With a nod to a wolf, the Hind ordered that Sofie should be hauled to

her feet. Sofie bit down her cry of pain. Behind her, another wolf opened the transom gate, exposing the small platform off the boat’s back. Sofie’s throat closed up.

“Since your brother has bestowed such a death upon a multitude of

imperial soldiers, this will be an apt punishment for you,” the Hind said, stepping onto the platform, not seeming to care about the water splashing over her boots. She pulled a small white stone from her pocket, lifting it for Sofie to see, and then chucked it into the water. Observed it with her Vanir-sharp eyes as it dropped down, down, down into the inky blackness.

“At that depth, you’ll likely drown before you hit the seafloor,” the

Hind observed, her golden hair shifting across her imperious face. She slid her hands into her pockets as the wolves knelt at Sofie’s feet and bound them together with chains weighted with lead blocks.

“I’ll ask you again,” the Hind said, angling her head, silver torque

glinting at her neck. “With whom did you share the intelligence you

collected before you went into Kavalla?”

Sofie felt the ache of her missing fingernails. Saw the faces in that

camp. The people she’d left behind. Her cause had been Emile—yet Ophion was right in so many ways. And some small part of her had been glad to kill for Ophion, to fight for those people. Would keep fighting for them, for Emile, now. She gritted out, “I told you: no one.”

“Very well, then.” The Hind pointed to the water. “You know how this

ends.”

Sofie kept her face blank to conceal her shock at her good luck, one last

gift from Solas. Apparently, even the Hind was not as clever as she believed herself to be. She offered a swift, horrible death—but it was nothing compared to the endless torture Sofie had expected.

“Put her on the platform.” A dreadwolf—a hulking, dark-haired male—objected, sneering, “We’ll

get it out of her.” Mordoc, the Hind’s second in command. Almost as feared as his commander. Especially with his particular gifts.

The Hind didn’t so much as look at him. “I’m not wasting my time on

this. She says she didn’t tell anyone, and I’m inclined to believe her.” A slow smile. “So the intel will die with her.”

It was all the Hind needed to say. The wolves hauled Sofie onto the

platform. She swallowed a cry at the wave of agony that rippled through her thigh. Icy water sprayed, soaking through her clothes, burning and numbing.

Sofie couldn’t stop her shaking. Tried to remember the kiss of the air,

the scent of the sea, the gray of the sky before dawn. She would not see the sunrise, only minutes away. She’d never see another one again.

She had taken the beauty and simplicity of living for granted. How she

wished she’d savored it more. Every single moment.

The deer shifter prowled closer. “Any last words?” Emile had gotten away. It was all that mattered. He’d be kept safe now.

Sofie smiled crookedly at the Hind. “Go to Hel.” Mordoc’s clawed hands shoved her off the platform.

The frigid water hit Sofie like a bomb blast, and then the lead at her feet

grabbed all that she was and might have been, and pulled her under.

The Hind stood, a phantom in the chilled mist of the Haldren Sea, and

watched until Sofie Renast had been wrapped in Ogenas’s embrace.

PART I

THE CHASM

1

For a Tuesday night at the Crescent City Ballet, the theater was unusually packed. The sight of the swarming masses in the lobby, drinking and chatting and mingling, filled Bryce Quinlan with a quiet sort of joy and pride.

There was only one reason why the theater was so packed tonight. With

her Fae hearing, she could have sworn she heard the hundreds of voices all around her whispering, Juniper Andromeda. The star of tonight’s

performance.

Yet even with the crowd, an air of quiet reverence and serenity filled the

space. As if it were a temple.

Bryce had the creeping sensation that the various ancient statues of the

gods flanking the long lobby watched her. Or maybe that was the well-dressed older shifter couple standing by a reclining statue of Cthona, the earth goddess, naked and awaiting the embrace of her lover, Solas. The shifters—some sort of big cats, from their scents, and rich ones, judging by their watches and jewelry—blatantly ogled her.

Bryce offered them a bland, close-lipped smile.

Some variation of this had happened nearly every single day since the

attack this past spring. The first few times had been overwhelming, unnerving—people coming up to her and sobbing with gratitude. Now they just stared.

Bryce didn’t blame the people who wanted to speak to her, who needed

to speak to her. The city had been healed—by her—but its people …

Scores had been dead by the time her firstlight erupted through

Lunathion. Hunt had been lucky, had been taking his last breaths, when the firstlight saved him. Five thousand other people had not been so lucky.

Their families had not been so lucky.

So many dark boats had drifted across the Istros to the mists of the

Bone Quarter that they had looked like a bevy of black swans. Hunt had carried her into the skies to see it. The quays along the river had teemed with people, their mourning cries rising to the low clouds where she and Hunt had glided.

Hunt had only held her tighter and flown them home. “Take a picture,” Ember Quinlan called now to the shifters from where

she stood next to a marble torso of Ogenas rising from the waves, the ocean goddess’s full breasts peaked and arms upraised. “Only ten gold marks.

Fifteen, if you want to be in it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Mom,” Bryce muttered. Ember stood with her hands

on her hips, gorgeous in a silky gray gown and pashmina. “Please don’t.”

Ember opened her mouth, as if she’d say something else to the

chastised shifters now hurrying toward the east staircase, but her husband interrupted her. “I second Bryce’s request,” Randall said, dashing in his navy suit.

Ember turned outraged dark eyes on Bryce’s stepfather—her only

father, as far as Bryce was concerned—but Randall pointed casually to a broad frieze behind them. “That one reminds me of Athalar.”

Bryce arched a brow, grateful for the change of subject, and twisted

toward where he’d pointed. On it, a powerful Fae male stood poised above an anvil, hammer raised skyward in one fist, lightning cracking from the skies, filling the hammer, and flowing down toward the object of the hammer’s intended blow: a sword.

Its label read simply: Unknown sculptor. Palmira, circa 125 V.E.

Bryce lifted her mobile and snapped a photo, pulling up her messaging

thread with Hunt Athalar Is Better at Sunball Than I Am.

She couldn’t deny that. They’d gone to the local sunball field one sunny

afternoon last week to play, and Hunt had promptly wiped the floor with her. He’d changed his name in her phone on the way home.

With a few sweeps of her thumbs, the picture zoomed off into the ether,

along with her note: Long-lost relative of yours?

She slid her phone into her clutch to find her mother watching. “What?”

Bryce muttered.

But Ember only motioned toward the frieze. “Who does it depict?” Bryce checked the sliver of writing in the lower right corner. “It just

says The Making of the Sword.”

Her mother peered at the half-faded etching. “In what language?” Bryce tried to keep her posture relaxed. “The Old Language of the Fae.” “Ah.” Ember pursed her lips, and Randall wisely drifted off through the

crowd to study a towering statue of Luna aiming her bow toward the heavens, two hunting dogs at her feet and a stag nuzzling her hip. “You stayed fluent in it?”

“Yep,” Bryce said. Then added, “It’s come in handy.” “I’d imagine so.” Ember tucked back a strand of her black hair.

Bryce moved to the next frieze dangling from the distant ceiling on

near-invisible wires. “This one’s of the First Wars.” She scanned the relief carved into the ten-foot expanse of marble. “It’s about …” She schooled her expression into neutrality.

“What?” Ember stepped closer to the depiction of an army of winged

demons swooping down from the skies upon a terrestrial army gathered on the plain below.

“This one’s about Hel’s armies arriving to conquer Midgard during the

First Wars,” Bryce finished, trying to keep her voice bland. To block out the flash of talons and fangs and leathery wings—the boom of her rifle resounding through her bones, the rivers of blood in the streets, the screaming and screaming and—

“You’d think this one would be a popular piece these days,” Randall

observed, returning to their sides to study the frieze.

Bryce didn’t reply. She didn’t particularly enjoy discussing the events

of the past spring with her parents. Especially not in the middle of a packed theater lobby.

Randall jerked his chin to the inscription. “What’s this one say?” Keenly aware of her mother marking her every blink, Bryce kept her

stance unaffected as she skimmed the text in the Old Language of the Fae.

It wasn’t that she was trying to hide what she’d endured. She had talked

to her mom and dad about it a few times. But it always resulted in Ember

crying, or ranting about the Vanir who’d locked out so many innocents, and the weight of all her mother’s emotions on top of all of hers …

It was easier, Bryce had realized, to not bring it up. To let herself talk it

out with Hunt, or sweat it out in Madame Kyrah’s dance classes twice a week. Baby steps toward being ready for actual talk therapy, as Juniper kept suggesting, but both had helped immensely.

Bryce silently translated the text. “This is a piece from a larger

collection—likely one that would have wrapped around the entire exterior of a building, each slab telling a different part of the story. This one says: Thus the seven Princes of Hel looked in envy upon Midgard and unleashed their unholy hordes upon our united armies.”

“Apparently nothing’s changed in fifteen thousand years,” Ember said,

shadows darkening her eyes.

Bryce kept her mouth shut. She’d never told her mom about Prince

Aidas—how he’d helped her twice now, and had seemed unaware of his brothers’ dark plans. If her mom knew she’d consorted with the fifth Prince of Hel, they’d have to redefine the concept of going berserk.

But then Ember said, “Couldn’t you get a job here?” She gestured with

a tan hand to the CCB’s grand entrance, its ever-changing art exhibits in the lobby and on a few of the other levels. “You’re qualified. This would have been perfect.”

“There were no openings.” True. And she didn’t want to use her

princess status to get one. She wanted to work at a place like the CCB’s art department on her own merit.

Her job at the Fae Archives … Well, she definitely got that because they

saw her as a Fae Princess. But it wasn’t the same, somehow. Because she hadn’t wanted to work there as badly.

“Did you even try?” “Mom,” Bryce said, voice sharpening. “Bryce.” “Ladies,” Randall said, a teasing remark designed to fracture the

growing tension.

Bryce smiled gratefully at him but found her mother frowning. She

sighed up at the starburst chandeliers above the glittering throng. “All right, Mom. Out with it.”

“Out with what?” Ember asked innocently.

“Your opinion about my job.” Bryce gritted her teeth. “For years, you

ragged on me for being an assistant, but now that I’m doing something better, it’s not good enough?”

This was so not the place, not with tons of people milling about within

earshot, but she’d had it.

Ember didn’t seem to care as she said, “It’s not that it’s not good

enough. It’s about where that job is.”

“The Fae Archives operate independently of him.” “Oh? Because I remember him bragging that it was pretty much his

personal library.”

Bryce said tightly, “Mom. The gallery is gone. I need a job. Forgive me

if the usual corporate nine-to-five isn’t available to me right now. Or if CCB’s art department isn’t hiring.”

“I just don’t get why you couldn’t work something out with Jesiba.

She’s still got that warehouse—surely she needs help with whatever she does there.”

Bryce refrained from rolling her eyes. Within a day of the attack on the

city this spring, Jesiba had cleared out the gallery—and the precious volumes that made up all that remained of the ancient Great Library of Parthos. Most of Jesiba’s other pieces were now in a warehouse, many in crates, but Bryce had no idea where the sorceress had spirited off the Parthos books—one of the few remnants of the human world before the Asteri’s arrival. Bryce hadn’t dared question Jesiba about their current whereabouts. It was a miracle that the Asteri hadn’t been tipped off about the contraband books’ existence. “There are only so many times I can ask for a job without looking like I’m begging.”

“And we can’t have a princess do that.” She’d lost count of how often she’d told her mom she wasn’t a princess.

Didn’t want to be, and the Autumn King sure as shit didn’t want her to be, either. She hadn’t spoken to the asshole since that last time he’d come to see her at the gallery, right before her confrontation with Micah. When she’d revealed what power coursed through her veins.

It was an effort not to glance down at her chest, to where the front of

her gauzy, pale blue dress plunged to just below her breasts, displaying the star-shaped mark between them. Thankfully, the back was high enough to hide the Horn tattooed there. Like an old scar, the white mark stood out

starkly against her freckled, golden-tan skin. It hadn’t faded in the three months since the city had been attacked.

She’d already lost count of how many times she’d caught her mom

staring at her star since arriving last night.

A cluster of gorgeous females—woodland nymphs, from their cedar-

and-moss scents—meandered past, champagne in hand, and Bryce lowered her voice. “What do you want me to say? That I’ll move back home to Nidaros and pretend to be normal?”

“What’s so bad about normal?” Her mother’s beautiful face blazed with

an inner fire that never banked—never, ever died out. “I think Hunt would like living there.”

“Hunt still works for the 33rd, Mom,” Bryce said. “He’s second in

command, for fuck’s sake. And while he might appease you by saying he’d love to live in Nidaros, don’t think for one minute he means it.”

“Way to throw him under the bus,” Randall said while keeping his

attention on a nearby information placard.

Before Bryce could answer, Ember said, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed

things between you two are weird.”

Trust her mom to bring up two topics she didn’t want to talk about in

the space of five minutes. “In what way?”

“You’re together but not together,” Ember said bluntly. “What’s that

about?”

“It’s none of your business.” It really wasn’t. But as if he’d heard her,

the phone in her clutch buzzed. She yanked it out and peered at the screen.

Hunt had written, I can only hope to have abs like those one day.

Bryce couldn’t help her half smile as she peered back at the muscular

Fae male on the frieze before answering. I think you might have a few on him, actually …

“Don’t ignore me, Bryce Adelaide Quinlan.” Her phone buzzed again, but she didn’t read Hunt’s reply as she said to

her mother, “Can you please drop it? And don’t bring it up when Hunt gets here.”

Ember’s mouth popped open, but Randall said, “Agreed. No job or

romance interrogations when Hunt arrives.”

Her mother frowned doubtfully, but Bryce said, “Mom, just … stop,

okay? I don’t mind my job, and the thing between me and Hunt is what he

and I agreed on. I’m doing fine. Let’s leave it at that.”

It was a lie. Sort of.

She actually liked her job—a lot. The private wing of the Fae Archives

housed a trove of ancient artifacts that had been sorely neglected for centuries—now in need of researching and cataloging so they could be sent on a traveling exhibit next spring.

She set her own hours, answering only to the head of research, an owl

shifter—one of the rare non-Fae staff—who only worked from dusk to dawn, so they barely overlapped. The worst part of her day was entering the sprawling complex through the main buildings, where the sentries all gawked at her. Some even bowed. And then she had to walk through the atrium, where the librarians and patrons tended to stare, too.

Everyone these days stared—she really fucking hated it. But Bryce

didn’t want to tell her mom any of that.

Ember said, “Fine. You know I just worry.” Something in Bryce’s chest softened. “I know, Mom. And I know …”

She struggled for the words. “It really helps to know that I can move back home if I want to. But not right now.”

“Fair enough,” Randall chimed in, giving Ember a pointed glance

before looping his arm around her waist and steering her toward another frieze across the theater lobby.

Bryce used their distraction to take out her phone, and found that Hunt

had written two messages:

Want to count my abs when we get home from the ballet?

Her stomach tightened, and she’d never been more grateful that her

parents possessed a human sense of smell as her toes curled in her heels.

Hunt had added, I’ll be there in five, by the way. Isaiah held me up with

a new case.

She sent a thumbs-up, then replied: Pleaaaaaase get here ASAP. I just

got a major grilling about my job. And you.

Hunt wrote back immediately, and Bryce read as she slowly trailed her

parents to where they observed the frieze: What about me?

“Bryce,” her mom called, pointing to the frieze before her. “Check out

this one. It’s JJ.”

Bryce looked up from her phone and grinned. “Badass warrior Jelly

Jubilee.” There, hanging on the wall, was a rendering of a pegasus—though

not a unicorn-pegasus, like Bryce’s childhood toy—charging into battle. An armored figure, helmet obscuring any telltale features, rode atop the beast, sword upraised. Bryce snapped a photo and sent it to Hunt.

First Wars JJ, reporting for duty!

She was about to reply to Hunt’s What about me? question when her

mom said, “Tell Hunt to stop flirting and hurry up already.”

Bryce scowled at her mom and put her phone away.

So many things had changed since revealing her heritage as the Autumn

King’s daughter and a Starborn heir: people gawking, the hat and sunglasses she now wore on the street to attain some level of anonymity, the job at the Fae Archives. But at least her mother remained the same.

Bryce couldn’t decide whether that was a comfort or not.

Entering the private box in the angels’ section of the theater—the stage-left boxes a level above the floor—Bryce grinned toward the heavy golden curtain blocking the stage from sight. Only ten minutes remained until the show began. Until the world could see how insanely talented Juniper was.

Ember gracefully sank into one of the red velvet chairs at the front of

the box, Randall claiming the seat beside her. Bryce’s mother didn’t smile.

Considering that the royal Fae boxes occupied the wing across from them, Bryce didn’t blame her. And considering that many of the bejeweled and shining nobility were staring at Bryce, it was a miracle Ember hadn’t flipped them off yet.

Randall whistled at the prime seats as he peered over the golden rail.

“Nice view.”

The air behind Bryce went electric, buzzing and alive. The hair on her

arms prickled. A male voice sounded from the vestibule, “A benefit to having wings: no one wants to sit behind you.”

Bryce had developed a keen awareness of Hunt’s presence, like

scenting lightning on the wind. He had only to enter a room and she’d know if he was there by that surge of power in her body. Like her magic, her very blood answered to his.

Now she found Hunt standing in the doorway, already tugging at the

black tie around his neck.

Just … gods-damn.

He’d worn a black suit and white shirt, both cut to his powerful,

muscled body, and the effect was devastating. Add in the gray wings framing it all and she was a goner.

Hunt smirked knowingly, but nodded to Randall. “You clean up good,

man. Sorry I’m late.” Bryce could barely hear her dad’s reply as she surveyed the veritable malakim feast before her.

Hunt had cut his hair shorter last month. Not too short, since she’d

staged an intervention with the stylist before the draki male could chop off all those beautiful locks, but gone was the shoulder-length hair. The shorter style suited him, but it was still a shock weeks later to find his hair neatly trimmed to his nape, with only a few pieces in the front still unruly enough to peek through the hole in his sunball hat. Tonight, however, he’d brushed it into submission, revealing the clear expanse of his forehead.

That was still a shock, too: no tattoo. No sign of the years of torment

the angel had endured beyond the C stamped over the slave’s tattoo on his right wrist, marking him a free male. Not a full citizen, but closer to it than the peregrini.

The mark was hidden by the cuff of his suit jacket and the shirt beneath,

and Bryce lifted her gaze to Hunt’s face. Her mouth went dry at the bald hunger filling his dark, angular eyes. “You look okay, too,” he said, winking.

Randall coughed, but leafed through the playbill. Ember did the same

beside him.

Bryce ran a hand down the front of her blue dress. “This old thing?” Hunt chuckled, and tugged on his tie again.

Bryce sighed. “Please tell me you’re not one of those big, tough males

who makes a big fuss about how he hates getting dressed up.”

It was Ember’s turn to cough, but Hunt’s eyes danced as he said to

Bryce, “Good thing I don’t have to do it that often, huh?”

A knock on the box door shut off her reply, and a satyr server appeared,

carrying a tray of complimentary champagne. “From Miss Andromeda,” the cloven-hoofed male announced.

Bryce grinned. “Wow.” She made a mental note to double the size of

the bouquet she’d planned to send to June tomorrow. She took the glass the satyr extended to her, but before she could raise it to her lips, Hunt halted her with a gentle hand on her wrist. She’d officially ended her No Drinking

rule after this spring, but she suspected the touch had nothing to do with reminding her to go slow.

Arching a brow, she waited until the server had left before asking, “You

want to make a toast?”

Hunt reached into an inner pocket of his suit and pulled out a small

container of mints. Or what seemed like mints. She barely had time to react before he plopped a white pill into her glass.

“What the Hel—” “Just testing.” Hunt studied her glass. “If it’s drugged or poisoned, it’ll

turn green.”

Ember chimed in with her approval. “The satyr said the drinks are from

Juniper, but how do you know, Bryce? Anything could be in it.” Her mom nodded at Hunt. “Good thinking.”

Bryce wanted to object, but … Hunt had a point. “And what am I

supposed to do with it now? It’s ruined.”

“The pill is tasteless,” Hunt said, clinking his flute against hers when

the liquid remained pale gold. “Bottoms up.”

“Classy,” she said, but drank. It still tasted like champagne—no hint of

the dissolved pill lingered.

The golden sconces and dangling starburst chandeliers dimmed twice in

a five-minute warning, and Bryce and Hunt took their seats behind her parents. From this angle, she could barely make out Fury in the front row.

Hunt seemed to track the direction of her attention. “She didn’t want to

sit with us?”

“Nope.” Bryce took in her friend’s shining dark hair, her black suit.

“She wants to see every drop of Juniper’s sweat.”

“I’d think she saw that every night,” Hunt said wryly, and Bryce

waggled her eyebrows.

But Ember twisted in her seat, a genuine smile lighting her face. “How

are Fury and Juniper doing? Did they move in together yet?”

“Two weeks ago.” Bryce craned her neck to study Fury, who seemed to

be reading the playbill. “And they’re really good. I think Fury’s here to stay this time.”

Her mom asked carefully, “And you and Fury? I know things were

weird for a while.”

Hunt did her a favor and made himself busy on his phone. Bryce idly

flipped the pages of her playbill. “Working things out with Fury took some time. But we’re good.”

Randall asked, “Is Axtar still doing what she does best?” “Yep.” Bryce was content to leave her friend’s mercenary business at

that. “She’s happy, though. And more important, June and Fury are happy together.”

“Good,” Ember said, smiling softly. “They make such a beautiful

couple.” And because her mom was … well, her mom, Ember sized up Bryce and Hunt and said with no shame whatsoever, “You two would as well, if you got your shit together.”

Bryce slouched down in her seat, lifting her playbill to block her red-

hot face. Why weren’t the lights dimming yet? But Hunt took it in stride and said, “All good things come to those who wait, Ember.”

Bryce scowled at the arrogance and amusement in his tone, throwing

her playbill into her lap as she declared, “Tonight’s a big deal for June. Try not to ruin it with nonsensical banter.”

Ember patted Bryce’s knee before twisting back to face the stage.

Hunt drained his champagne, and Bryce’s mouth dried out again at the

sight of the broad, strong column of his throat working as he swallowed, then said, “Here I was, thinking you loved the banter.”

Bryce had the option of either drooling or turning away, so rather than

ruin her dress, she observed the crowd filtering into their seats. More than one person peered toward her box.

Especially from the Fae boxes across the way. No sign of her father or

Ruhn, but she recognized a few cold faces. Tristan Flynn’s parents—Lord and Lady Hawthorne—were among them, their professional snob of a daughter Sathia sitting between them. None of the glittering nobility seemed pleased at Bryce’s presence. Good.

“Tonight’s a big deal for June, remember,” Hunt murmured, lips

quirking upward.

She glowered. “What?” Hunt inclined his head toward the Fae nobility sneering across the

space. “I can see you thinking about some way to piss them off.”

“I was not.”

He leaned in to whisper, his breath brushing her neck, “You were, and I

know it because I was thinking the same thing.” A few cameras flashed from above and below, and she knew people weren’t snapping photos of the stage curtain.

Bryce peeled back to survey Hunt, the face she knew as well as her

own. For a moment, for a too-brief eternity, they stared at each other. Bryce swallowed, but couldn’t bring herself to move. To break the contact.

Hunt’s throat bobbed. But he said nothing more, either.

Three fucking months of this torture. Stupid agreement. Friends, but

more. More, but without any of the physical benefits.

Hunt said at last, voice thick, “It’s really nice of you to be here for

Juniper.”

She tossed her hair over a shoulder. “You’re making it sound like it’s

some big sacrifice.”

He jerked his chin toward the still-sneering Fae nobility. “You can’t

wear a hat and sunglasses here, so … yeah.”

She admitted, “I wish she’d gotten us seats in the nosebleed section.” Instead, Juniper—to accommodate Hunt’s wings—had gotten them this

box. Right where everyone could see the Starborn Princess and the Fallen Angel.

The orchestra began tuning up, and the sounds of slowly awakening

violins and flutes drew Bryce’s attention to the pit. Her muscles tensed of their own volition, as if priming to move. To dance.

Hunt leaned in again, voice a low purr, “You look beautiful, you know.” “Oh, I know,” she said, even as she bit her lower lip to keep from

grinning. The lights began dimming, so Bryce decided to Hel with it. “When do I get to count those abs, Athalar?”

The angel cleared his throat—once, twice—and shifted in his seat,

feathers rustling. Bryce smiled smugly.

He murmured, “Four more months, Quinlan.” “And three days,” she shot back.

His eyes shone in the growing darkness. “What are you two talking about back there?” Ember asked, and Bryce

replied without tearing her gaze from Hunt’s, “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was the stupid bargain she’d made with Hunt:

that rather than diving right into bed, they’d wait until Winter Solstice to act

on their desires. Spend the summer and autumn getting to know each other without the burdens of a psychotic Archangel and demons on the prowl.

So they had. Torturing each other with flirting was allowed, but

sometimes, tonight especially … she really wished she’d never suggested it.

Wished she could drag him into the coat closet of the vestibule behind them and show him precisely how much she liked that suit.

Four months, three days, and … She peeked at the delicate watch on her

wrist. Four hours. And at the stroke of midnight on Winter Solstice, she would be stroking—

“Burning fucking Solas, Quinlan,” Hunt grunted, again shifting in his

seat.

“Sorry,” she muttered, thankful for the second time in an hour that her

parents didn’t have the sense of smell that Hunt possessed.

But Hunt laughed, sliding an arm along the back of her chair, fingers

tangling in her unbound hair. He seemed contented. Assured of his place there.

She glanced at her parents, sitting with similar closeness, and couldn’t

help but smile. Her mom had taken a while to act on her desires with Randall, too. Well, there’d been some initial … stuff. That was as much as Bryce let herself think about them. But she knew it had been nearly a year before they’d made things official. And they’d turned out pretty damn well.

So these months with Hunt, she cherished them. As much as she

cherished her dance classes with Madame Kyrah. No one except Hunt really understood what she’d gone through—only Hunt had been at the Gate.

She scanned his striking features, her lips curving again. How many

nights had they stayed up, talking about everything and nothing? Ordering in dinner, watching movies or reality shows or sunball, playing video games, or sitting on the roof of the apartment building, observing malakim and witches and draki dart across the sky like shooting stars.

He’d shared so many things about his past, sad and horrible and joyous.

She wanted to know all of it. And the more she learned, the more she found herself sharing, and the more she …

Light flared from the star on her chest.

Bryce clapped a hand over it. “I shouldn’t have worn this stupid dress.”

Her fingers could barely cover the star that was blaring white light

through the dim theater, illuminating every face now turned her way as the orchestra quieted in anticipation of the conductor’s approach.

She didn’t dare look toward the Fae across the space. To see the disgust

and disdain.

Ember and Randall twisted in their seats, her dad’s face scrunched with

concern, Ember’s eyes wide with fear. Her mom knew those Fae were sneering, too. She’d hidden Bryce from them her whole life because of how they’d react to the power that now radiated from her.

Some jackass shouted from the audience below, “Hey! Turn off the

light!” Bryce’s face burned as a few people chuckled, then quickly went silent.

She could only assume Fury had been nearby.

Bryce cupped both hands over the star, which had taken to glowing at

the worst fucking times—this was merely the most mortifying. “I don’t know how to turn it off,” she muttered, making to rise from her seat and flee into the vestibule behind the curtain.

But Hunt slid a warm, dry hand over her scar, fingers grazing her

breasts. His palm was broad enough that it covered the mark, capturing the light within. It glowed through his fingers, casting his light brown skin into rosy gold, but he managed to contain the light.

“Admit it: you just wanted me to feel you up,” Hunt whispered, and

Bryce couldn’t help her stupid, giddy laugh. She buried her face in Hunt’s shoulder, the smooth material of his suit cool against her cheeks and brow. “Need a minute?” he asked, though she knew he was glaring daggers at all the assholes still gawking. The Fae nobility hissing about the disgrace.

“Should we go?” Ember asked, voice sharp with worry. “No,” Bryce said thickly, putting a hand over Hunt’s. “I’m good.” “You can’t sit there like that,” Ember countered. “I’m good, Mom.” Hunt didn’t move his hand. “We’re used to the staring. Right,

Quinlan?” He flashed Ember a grin. “They won’t fuck with us.” An edge laced his smile, a reminder to anyone watching that he wasn’t only Hunt Athalar, he was also the Umbra Mortis. The Shadow of Death.

He’d earned that name.

Ember nodded again approvingly as Randall offered Hunt a grateful dip

of the chin. Mercifully, the conductor emerged then, and a smattering of applause filled the theater.

Bryce inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled. She had zero control over

when the star flared, or when it stopped. She sipped from her champagne, then said casually to Hunt, “The headline on the gossip sites tomorrow is going to be: Horndog Umbra Mortis Gropes Starborn Princess at Ballet.”

“Good,” Hunt murmured. “It’ll improve my standing in the 33rd.” She smiled, despite herself. It was one of his many gifts—making her

laugh, even when the world seemed inclined to humiliate and shun her.

His fingers went dark at her chest, and Bryce heaved a sigh. “Thanks,”

she said as the conductor raised his baton.

Hunt slowly, so slowly, removed his hand from her chest. “Don’t

mention it, Quinlan.”

She glanced sidelong at him again, wondering at the shift in his tone.

But the orchestra began its lilting opening, and the curtain drew back, and Bryce leaned forward breathlessly to await her friend’s grand entrance.

2

Bryce tried not to shiver with delight when Hunt knocked her with a wing while they walked up the sagging stairs to Ruhn’s house.

A small get-together, Ruhn had said when he’d called to invite them to

swing by after the ballet. Since the thought of her mother grilling her again about her job, sex life, and princess status was sure to drive her to drink anyway, Bryce and Hunt had dumped her parents back at their hotel, changed at the apartment—Hunt had insisted on that part with a grumbled I need to get the fuck out of this suit—and flown over here.

The entire Old Square had apparently turned up as well: Fae and

shifters and people of all Houses drank and danced and talked. On the pathetic excuse for a front lawn, a cluster of green-haired river nymphs and fauns both male and female played cornhole. A cluster of Fae males behind them—Aux members, from their muscles and stick-up-the-ass posture— were engaged in what looked like an absolutely riveting game of bocce.

The arid day had yielded to a whisper-sweet night, warm enough that

every bar and café and club in the Old Square—especially around Archer Street—teemed with revelers. Even with the booming music erupting from Ruhn’s house, she could make out the thump of the bass from the other houses along the street, the bar at the corner, the cars driving by.

Everyone was celebrating being alive.

As they should be. “Fury and June are already here,” Bryce called to Hunt over the noise as

they strode up the rickety, beer-splattered steps into Ruhn’s house. “June said they’re in the living room.”

Hunt nodded, though his focus remained fixed on the partying crowd.

Even here, people noted from all directions as the Starborn Princess and the Umbra Mortis arrived. The crowd parted for them, some even backing away. Bryce stiffened, but Hunt didn’t halt his easy pace. He was accustomed to this shit—had been for a while now. And though he was no longer officially the Shadow of Death, people hadn’t forgotten what he had once done. Who he’d once served.

Hunt aimed for the living room to the left of the foyer, the ridiculous

muscles along his shoulders shifting with the movement. They were put on near-obscene display by the black tank top he wore. Bryce might have survived the sight of it, had it not been for the white sunball hat, twisted backward the way Hunt usually wore it.

She preferred that hat to the fancy suit, actually.

To her shock, Hunt didn’t protest when a reveling air sprite floated past,

crowning him and then Bryce with glow-stick necklaces made from firstlight. Bryce removed the plastic tube of light and looped it into a bracelet snaking up her arm. Hunt left his hanging over his chest, the light casting the deep muscles of his pectorals and shoulders in stark relief. Gods spare her.

Hunt had only taken one step into the living room when Tristan Flynn’s

voice boomed from the foyer behind them: “The fuck, Ruhn!”

Bryce snorted, and through the crowd she spied the Fae lord at one end

of the beer pong table on which he’d painted an image of an enormous Fae head devouring an angel whole.

Ruhn stood at the other end of the table, both middle fingers raised to

his opponents, his lip ring glinting in the dim lights of the foyer. “Pay up, assholes,” her brother said, the rolled cigarette between his lips bobbing with his words.

Bryce reached a hand for Hunt, fingers grazing his downy soft wings.

He went rigid, twisting to look at her. Angels’ wings were highly sensitive.

She might as well have grabbed him by the balls.

Face flushing, she jabbed a thumb toward her brother. “Tell June and

Fury I’ll be there in a sec,” she called over the noise. “I want to say hi to Ruhn.” She didn’t wait for Hunt to reply before wending her way over.

Flynn let out a cheer as she appeared, obviously well on his way to

being smashed. Typical Tuesday night for him. She considered sending a

photo of his wasted ass to his parents and sister. They might not sneer so much at her, then.

Declan Emmett appeared slightly more sober as he said from Flynn’s

side, “Hey, B.”

Bryce waved, not wanting to shout over the crowd gathered in what had

once been a dining room. It had recently been transformed into a billiards and darts room. Absolutely fitting for the Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae, Bryce thought with a half smile as she sidled up to the male beside her brother. “Hi, Marc.”

The towering leopard shifter, all sleek muscle beneath his dark brown

skin, peered down at her. His striking topaz eyes sparkled. Declan had been seeing Marc Rosarin for a month now, having met the tech entrepreneur during some fancy party at one of the big engineering companies in the Central Business District. “Hey, Princess.”

Flynn demanded, “Since when do you let Marc get away with calling

you Princess?”

“Since I like him better than you,” Bryce shot back, earning a clap on

the shoulder from Marc and a grin from Ruhn. She said to her brother, “A small get-together, huh?”

Ruhn shrugged, the tattoos along his arms shifting. “I blame Flynn.” Flynn lifted his last beer up in acknowledgment and chugged. “Where’s Athalar?” Declan asked. “With June and Fury in the living room,” Bryce said.

Ruhn waved his greeting to a passing partier before he asked, “How

was the ballet?”

“Awesome. June killed her solos. Brought the house to its feet.” She’d

had chills along her entire body while her friend had danced—and tears in her eyes when Juniper had received a standing ovation after finishing.

Bryce had never heard the CCB so full of cheering, and from Juniper’s flushed, joyous face as she’d bowed, Bryce knew her friend realized it, too.

A promotion to principal was sure to come any day now.

“Hottest ticket in town,” Marc said, whistling. “Half my office would

have sold their souls to be there tonight.”

“You should have told me,” Bryce said. “We had a few extra seats in

our box. We could have fit them.”

Marc smiled appreciatively. “Next time.”

Flynn began reracking the beer pong cups, and called to her, “How are

Mommy and Daddy?”

“Good. They fed me a bottle of milk and read me a bedtime story

before I left.”

This earned a chuckle from Ruhn, who had once again become close

with Ember. Her brother asked, “How many interrogations since they got here last night?”

“Six.” Bryce pointed to the foyer and living room beyond. “Which is

why I’m going to go have a drink with my friends.”

“Open bar,” Declan said, gesturing magnanimously behind him.

Bryce waved again, and she was off. Without Hunt’s imposing form, far

fewer people turned her way. But when they did … pockets of silence appeared. She tried to ignore them, and nearly sighed with relief when she spied a familiar pair of horns atop a head of gracefully curling hair tucked into Juniper’s usual bun. She was seated on the stained living room sectional, thigh to thigh with Fury, their hands interlaced.

Hunt stood before them, wings held at a casual angle as he talked with

her friends. He looked up as Bryce entered the living room, and she could have sworn his black eyes lit.

She reined in her joy at the sight as she plopped onto the cushions

beside Juniper, cuddling close. She nuzzled June’s shoulder. “Hi, my talented and brilliant and beautiful friend.”

Juniper laughed, squeezing Bryce. “Right back at you.” Bryce said, “I was talking to Fury.” Juniper smacked Bryce’s knee, and Fury laughed, observing, “Already

acting like a prima donna.”

Bryce sighed dramatically. “I can’t wait to see June throw temper

tantrums about the state of her dressing room.”

“Oh, you’re both horrible,” Juniper said, but laughed along with them.

“One, I won’t even have a dressing room to myself for years. Two—”

“Here we go,” Fury said, and when June made a noise of objection, she

only chuckled and brushed her mouth over the faun’s temple.

The casual, loving bit of intimacy had Bryce daring a glance toward

Hunt, who was smiling faintly. Bryce avoided the urge to fidget, to think about how that could so easily be them, cuddling on the couch and kissing.

Hunt just said, voice gravelly, “What can I get you, Quinlan?” He inclined

his head toward the bar in the rear of the room, barely visible with the crowds mobbing the two bartenders.

“Whiskey, ginger beer, and lime.” “You got it.” With a mockery of a salute, Hunt stalked off through the

crowd.

“How’s the whole no-sex thing going for you, Bryce?” Fury asked

wryly, leaning forward to peer at her face.

Bryce slumped against the cushions. “Asshole.” June’s laugh fizzled through her, and her friend patted her thigh.

“Remind me why you two aren’t hooking up?”

Bryce peered over the back of the couch to make sure Hunt still stood at

the bar before she said, “Because I am a fucking idiot, and you two jerks know that.”

Juniper and Fury snickered, the latter taking a sip of her vodka soda.

“Tell him you’ve changed your mind,” the merc said, resting the glass on her black leather-clad knee. How Fury could wear leather in this heat was beyond Bryce. Shorts, T-shirt, and sandals were all she could endure with the sizzling temperatures, even at night.

“And break our bargain before Winter Solstice?” Bryce hissed. “He’d

never let me live it down.”

“Athalar already knows you want to break it,” Fury drawled. “Oh, he totally knows,” Juniper agreed.

Bryce crossed her arms. “Can we not talk about this?” “Where would the fun be in that?” Fury asked.

Bryce kicked Fury’s leather boot, wincing as her gold-sandaled foot

collided with unforgiving metal. “Steel toes? Really?”

“This is a veritable frat party,” Fury said, smirking. “There might be

some asses to kick if someone makes a move on my girlfriend.”

Juniper glowed at the term. Girlfriend.

Bryce didn’t know what the Hel she was to Hunt. Girlfriend seemed

ridiculous when talking about Hunt fucking Athalar. As if Hunt would ever do anything as normal and casual as dating.

Juniper poked Bryce in the arm. “I mean it. Remind me why you guys

still need to wait for solstice to do the deed.”

Bryce slouched, sinking down a few inches, her feet sending the empty

beer cans under the coffee table clattering. “I just …”

That familiar buzz of power and maleness that was Hunt filled the air

behind her, and Bryce shut her mouth a moment before a plastic cup of amber liquid garnished with a wedge of lime appeared before her. “Princess,” Hunt crooned, and Bryce’s toes curled—yet again. They seemed to have a habit of doing that around him.

“Do we get to use that term now?” June perked up with delight. “I’ve

been dying—”

“Absolutely not.” Bryce swigged from her drink. She gagged. “How

much whiskey did you have the bartender put in here, Athalar?” She coughed, as if it’d do anything to ease the burn.

Hunt shrugged. “I thought you liked whiskey.” Fury snorted, but Bryce got to her feet. Lifted the cup toward Hunt in a

silent toast, then lifted it to June. “To the next principal dancer of the CCB.”

Then she knocked back the whole thing and let it burn right down to her

soul.

Hunt let himself—just for one fucking second—look at Bryce. Admire the steady, unfaltering tap of her sandaled foot on the worn wood floor to the beat of the music; the long, muscled legs that gleamed in the neon firstlights, her white shorts offsetting her summer tan. No scars remained from the shit that had occurred this spring, aside from that mark on her chest, though the thick scar from years ago still curved along her thigh.

His fierce, strong, beautiful Bryce. He’d done his best not to gape at the

shape of her ass in those shorts as they’d walked over here, the sway of her long hair against her lower back, the ample hips that swished with each step.

He was a stupid fucking animal. But he’d always been a stupid fucking

animal around her.

He’d barely been able to focus on the ballet earlier—on June’s dancing

—because Bryce had looked so … delicious in that blue dress. Only her parents sitting a few feet in front of him had kept him from thinking too much about sliding his hand up her thigh and underneath that gauzy material.

But that wasn’t part of the plan. Earlier this spring, he’d been fine with

it. Aching for her, but fine with the concept of getting to know each other

better before sex entered the equation. Yet that ache had only gotten worse these past months. Living together in their apartment was a slow kind of torture for both of them.

Bryce’s whiskey-colored eyes shifted toward him. She opened her

mouth, then shut it at whatever she beheld in his expression.

The memory of those days following Micah’s and Sandriel’s demises

cooled his rising lust.

Let’s take things slow, she’d requested. I feel like we tumbled into all of

this, and now that things are getting back to normal, I want to do this right with you. Get to know you in real time, not while we’re running around the city trying to solve murders.

He’d agreed, because what else could he do? Never mind that he’d

come home from the Comitium that night planning to seduce Quinlan within an inch of her life. He hadn’t even gotten to the kissing part when she’d announced she wanted to hit the brakes.

He knew more lay behind it. Knew it likely had something to do with

the guilt she harbored for the thousands of people who hadn’t been saved that day. Allowing herself to be with him, to be happy … She needed time to sort it out. And Hunt would give it to her. Anything Bryce wanted, anything she needed, he’d gladly give it to her. He had the freedom to do so now, thanks to the branded-out tattoo on his wrist.

But on nights like these, with her in those shorts … it was really gods-

damned hard.

Bryce hopped up from the couch and padded over to him, leaving

Juniper and Fury to chat, Fury busy reloading the arts page of the Crescent City Times for the review of Juniper’s performance. “What’s up?” Hunt said to Bryce as she took up a place beside him.

“Do you actually like coming to these parties?” Bryce asked, gesturing

to the throng, firstlight glow stick around her wrist gleaming bright. “This doesn’t disgust you?”

He tucked in his wings. “Why would it disgust me?” “Because you’ve seen all the shit that’s happening in the world, and

been treated like dirt, and these people …” She tossed her sheet of hair over a shoulder. “A lot of them have no idea about it. Or just don’t care.”

Hunt studied her tight face. “Why do we come to these parties if it

bothers you?”

“Well, tonight we’re here to avoid my mom.” Hunt chuckled, but she

went on, “And because I want to celebrate June being a genius.” She smiled at her friend on the couch. “And we’re here because Ruhn asked me to come. But … I don’t know. I want to feel normal, but then I feel guilty about that, and then I get mad at all these people who don’t care enough to feel guilty, and I think the poison-testing pill you no doubt put in my whiskey had some sort of sad-sack potion in it because I don’t know why I’m thinking about this right now.”

Hunt huffed a laugh. “Sad-sack potion?” “You know what I mean!” She glared. “This really doesn’t bug you?” “No.” He assessed the party raging around them. “I prefer to see people

enjoying their lives. And you can’t assume that because they’re here, it means they don’t care. For all you know, a lot of them lost family and friends this spring. Sometimes people need stuff like this to feel alive again.

To find a kind of release.”

Wrong word. He sure as fuck hadn’t found release recently, other than

by his own hand. He tried not to think about whether Bryce had opened the drawer in her left nightstand, where she kept her toys, as often as he’d jacked off in the shower.

Four months left until Winter Solstice. Only four.

Bryce nodded, her mind clearly still on the conversation at hand. “I

guess I just … Sometimes I catch myself enjoying a moment, and worry I’m enjoying it too much, you know? Like something could come along and ruin all of this if I let myself have too much fun or get too accustomed to feeling happy.”

“I know the feeling.” He couldn’t stop himself from letting his fingers

curl in the ends of her hair. “It’s going to take time to adjust.”

He was still adjusting, too. He couldn’t get used to walking around

without a pit in his stomach as he wondered what horrors the day would bring. Being in charge of himself, his future … The Asteri could take it all away again, if they wished. Had only let him live because he and Bryce were too public to kill—the Asteri wanted them to lie low forever. And if they didn’t … Well, Rigelus had been very clear on his call to Bryce months ago: the Bright Hand of the Asteri would kill everyone Bryce and Hunt cared about if they stepped out of line. So lying low it would be.

Hunt was happy to do precisely that. To go to the ballet and these

parties and pretend that he’d never known anything different. That Bryce didn’t have the Horn tattooed into her back.

But each morning, when he donned his usual black armor for the 33rd,

he remembered. Isaiah had asked him for backup right after Micah’s death, and Hunt had gladly given it. He’d stayed on as Isaiah’s unofficial commander—unofficial only because Hunt didn’t want the paperwork that came with the real title.

The city had been quiet, though. Focused on healing. Hunt wasn’t going

to complain.

His phone buzzed in the back pocket of his black jeans, and he fished it

out to find an email from Isaiah waiting for him. Hunt read it and went still.

His heart dropped to his feet and back up again.

“What’s wrong?” Bryce peered over his shoulder.

Hunt passed her the phone with a surprisingly steady hand. “New

Archangels have been chosen for Micah’s and Sandriel’s territories.”

Her eyes widened. “Who? How bad are they?” He motioned for her to read Isaiah’s email, and Bryce, that firstlight

glow stick still coiled around her wrist, obeyed.

Roll out the welcome mat, Isaiah had written as his only comment on

the forwarded email from the Asteri’s imperial secretary announcing the new positions.

“They’re not bad,” Hunt said, staring blankly at the revelers now

gathering around a Fae male doing a keg stand in the corner. “That’s the problem.”

Bryce’s brows bunched as she scanned the email. “Ephraim—he

currently shares Rodinia with Jakob. Yeah, he seems decent enough. But he’s going to northern Pangera. Who … Oh. Who the Hel is Celestina?”

Hunt frowned. “She’s stayed out of the spotlight. She oversees Nena—

population, like, fifty. She has one legion under her command. One. She doesn’t even have a triarii. The legion is literally controlled by the Asteri— all watchdogs for the Northern Rift. She’s a figurehead.”

“Big promotion, then.” Hunt grunted. “Everything I’ve heard about her sounds unusually nice.” “No chance it’s true?” “Where Archangels are concerned? No.” He crossed his arms.

Fury said from the couch, “For what it’s worth, Athalar, I haven’t heard

anything bad, either.”

Juniper asked, “So this is promising, right?” Hunt shook his head. This wasn’t a conversation to have in public, but

he said, “I can’t figure out why the Asteri would appoint her here, when she’s only handled a small territory until now. She must be their puppet.”

Bryce tilted her head to the side, looking at him in that stark, all-seeing

way that made his balls tighten. Gods, she was beautiful. “Maybe it’s just a good thing, Hunt. So many shitty things have happened to us that we might not trust when something actually is good. But maybe we got lucky with Celestina’s appointment.”

“I’m inclined to think Urd’s dealing us a decent hand,” Juniper agreed.

Fury Axtar said nothing, her eyes shining as she thought. The merc

would likely be the only one to fully grasp the workings of the Asteri. Not that she’d ever reveal the details of her dealings with them.

“Celestina wants to meet what remains of Micah’s triarii when she

arrives. Apparently, there’s going to be some sort of restructuring,” Hunt said as Bryce handed back his phone. “Whatever that means. The press release won’t go live until tomorrow morning. So keep it quiet.” The three females nodded, though he had a feeling Fury wouldn’t keep her word.

Whoever she answered to, whatever valuable clients she served, would likely hear before dawn.

Bryce hooked her red hair behind her pointed ears. “When’s Celestina

coming?”

“Tomorrow evening.” His throat constricted.

Juniper and Fury fell into quiet conversation, as if to grant them

privacy. Bryce, catching their drift, lowered her voice. “You’re a free male, Hunt. She can’t order you to do anything you don’t want to do.” Her warm fingers wrapped around his wrist, thumb brushing over the branded-out SPQM. “You chose to reenlist in the 33rd. You have the rights of a free citizen. If you don’t like her, if you don’t want to serve her, then you don’t need to give her a reason in order to leave. You don’t need her permission.”

Hunt grunted his agreement, though he still had a fucking knot in his

chest. “Celestina could make life very difficult for us.”

Bryce held up a hand. Starlight radiated, turning her skin iridescent. A

drunk asshole nearby let out an ooooooh. Bryce ignored him and said, “I’d

like to see her try. I’m the Super Powerful and Special Magic Starborn Princess, remember?” He knew she was joking, but her mouth thinned. “I’ll protect you.”

“How could I forget, oh Magically Powerful and Super Special …

whatever you said.”

Bryce grinned, lowering her hand. She’d been meeting with Ruhn once

a week to explore her magic—to learn more about what lay within her veins, fueled by the power of so many. Her magic only manifested as starlight—a purely Fae gift. No shadows, like Ruhn possessed, or fire, like her father. But the sheer force of her power came from all those who’d given a droplet of their magic to the Gates over the years. All combined to make some kind of fuel to increase the potency of her starlight. Or something like that. Bryce had tried to explain it—why the magic manifested as a Fae talent—but Hunt didn’t care where it came from, so long as it kept her safe.

The magic was protection in a world designed to kill her. From a father

who might very well want to eliminate the threat of a daughter who surpassed him in power, if only by a fraction.

Hunt still had trouble fathoming that the female standing beside him

had become more powerful than the Autumn King. Hunt’s power technically still outranked hers, and her father’s, but with the Horn etched in her back, who really knew the depths of Bryce’s power? Considering Rigelus’s order to lie low, it wasn’t like Bryce could explore how the Horn affected her magic, but given what it had done this spring … He doubted Bryce would ever be tempted to experiment with it anyway.

He caught Axtar watching Bryce, but the merc said nothing.

So Hunt continued, only loud enough to indicate that he wanted Fury

and Juniper to also hear, “I don’t know what this Celestina thing is about, but the Asteri do nothing out of the kindness of their hearts.”

“They’d need hearts to do that,” Juniper whispered with

uncharacteristic venom.

Fury’s voice lowered. “The war is getting worse in Pangera. Valbara is a

key territory full of vital resources. Appointing someone who all reports claim is nice seems idiotic.”

Juniper raised her brows. Not at the claim about the Asteri, Hunt

guessed, but that Fury had willingly mentioned the war overseas. The merc

rarely, if ever, talked about it. What she’d done over there. What she’d seen.

Hunt, having fought in many of those battles, had a good idea of both.

“Maybe they really do want a puppet,” Juniper said. “Someone who’s a

figurehead, so they can order all of Valbara’s troops overseas with no resistance.”

Fury tucked a strand of her hair behind an ear. From all appearances,

Axtar seemed human. But she was definitely Vanir—of what breed, what House, Hunt had no idea. Flame and Shadow seemed likeliest, but more than that, he couldn’t guess. The merc said, “Even Micah might have resisted that order.”

Bryce’s face paled at the bastard’s name. Hunt repressed the urge to

fold a wing around her. He hadn’t told her of his own nightmares—of being forced to watch, over and over, as Micah brutalized her. And the nightmares of how she’d raced through the streets, demons from Hel’s darkest pits swarming her. Of brimstone missiles shooting for her in the Old Square.

“We can guess all night,” Bryce said, mastering herself. “But until you

have that meeting tomorrow, Hunt, we won’t know. Just go in there with an open mind.”

“You mean, don’t start a fight.” His mouth twitched to the side. Fury

snickered.

Bryce put a hand on her hip. “I mean, don’t go in there playing Scary

Asshole. Maybe try for an Approachable Asshole vibe.”

Juniper laughed at that, and Hunt chuckled as well. Unable to stop

himself from knocking Bryce with a wing for the second time that night, he promised, “Approachable Asshole it is, Quinlan.”

3

Ruhn Danaan knew three things with absolute certainty:

1. He had smoked so much mirthroot that he couldn’t feel his

face. Which was a damn shame because there was a female currently sitting on it.

2. He had downed an obscene amount of whiskey, because he

had no idea what the female’s name was, or how they’d gotten to his bedroom, or how he’d wound up with his tongue between her legs.

3. He really fucking loved his life. At least … right now.

Ruhn dug his fingers into the soft, spotted flanks of the delectable

creature moaning above him, dragging his lip ring across that spot he knew would—

Yeah. There it was. That groan of pure pleasure that shot right to his

cock, currently aching behind the fly of his black jeans. He hadn’t even undressed before going to town on the sweet faun who’d shyly approached him at the beer pong table. He’d gotten one look at her large green eyes, the long legs that ended in those pretty little hooves, and the creamy skin of her neck, above those high, perky breasts, and known precisely where he wanted this night to end.

Good thing she’d had the same idea. Had told him precisely what she

wanted in that whisper-soft voice.

Ruhn flicked his tongue across the taut bud of her clit, savoring the

meadow-soft taste of her in his mouth. She arched, thighs straining—and

came with a series of breathy moans that nearly had him spilling in his pants.

Ruhn gripped her bare ass, letting her ride his face through each wave

of pleasure, moaning himself as he slipped his tongue inside her to let her delicate inner muscles clench around him.

Fuck, this was hot. She was hot. Even through the haze of drugs and

booze, he was ready to go. All he needed was the okay from those full lips and he’d be buried in her within seconds.

For a heartbeat, like an arrow of light fired through the blissed-out

darkness of his mind, he remembered that he was, technically, betrothed.

And not to some simpering Fae girl whose parents might be pissed at his behavior, but to the Queen of the Valbaran Witches. Granted, they’d sworn no vows of faithfulness—for fuck’s sake, they’d barely spoken to each other during the Summit and in the months afterward—but … did it cross some line, to fuck around like this?

He knew the answer. The weight of it had lain heavy on him for

months. And perhaps that was why he was here right now: it did cross a line, but a line he had no say in. And yes, he respected and admired Hypaxia Enador—she was alarmingly beautiful, brave, and intelligent—but until the High Priestess bound their hands at Luna’s Temple, until that titanium ring went on his finger … he’d savor these last months of freedom.

He hoped it would be months, anyway. Hypaxia had not given his father

any indication of a timeline.

The faun stilled, chest heaving, and Ruhn let his thoughts of his

betrothed fade away as he swallowed the taste of the faun deep into his throat.

“Merciful Cthona,” the faun breathed, rising on her knees to pull herself

off his face. Ruhn released the firm cheeks of her ass, meeting her bright gaze as she peered at him, a flush across her high cheekbones.

Ruhn winked up at her, running a tongue over the corner of his mouth

to get one final taste of her. Gods, she was delectable. Her throat bobbed, her pulse fluttering like a beckoning drum.

Ruhn ran his hands up her bare thighs, fingers grazing over her narrow

hips and waist. “Do you want to—”

The door to his bedroom burst open, and Ruhn, pinned beneath the

female, could do nothing but twist his head toward the male standing there.

Apparently, the sight of the Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae with a

female straddling his face was common enough that Tristan Flynn didn’t so much as blink. Didn’t even smirk, though the faun leapt off Ruhn with a squeak, hiding herself behind the bed.

“Get downstairs,” Flynn said, his usually golden-brown skin pale. Gone

was any hint of drunken revelry. Even his brown eyes were sharp.

“Why?” Ruhn asked, wishing he had time to talk to the female quickly

gathering her clothes on the other side of the bed before he headed for the door.

But Flynn pointed to the far corner—the pile of dirty laundry, and the

Starsword propped against the stained wall beside it. “Bring that.”

Ruhn’s raging hard-on had vanished, thankfully, by the time he made it to the top of the stairs above the foyer. Music still shook the floors of the house, people still drank and hooked up and smoked and did whatever bullshit they usually enjoyed during these parties.

No sign of danger, no sign of anything except— There. A prickle at the back of his neck. Like a chill wind had skittered

over the top of his spine.

“Dec’s new security system picked up some kind of anomaly,” Flynn

said, scanning the party below. He’d gone into pure Aux mode. “It’s making all the sensors go off. Some kind of aura—Dec said it felt like a storm was circling the house.”

“Great,” Ruhn said, the hilt of the Starsword cool against his back.

“And it’s not some drunk asshole dicking around with magic?”

Flynn assessed the crowds. “Dec didn’t think so. He said from the way

it circled the house, it seemed like it was surveilling the area.”

Their friend and roommate had spent months designing a system to be

placed around their house and the surrounding streets—one that could pick up things like the kristallos demon, formerly too fast for their technology to detect.

“Then let’s see how it likes being watched, too,” Ruhn said, wishing he

was slightly less high and drunk as his shadows wobbled around him. Flynn sniggered.

The mirthroot took hold for a moment, and even Ruhn laughed as he

moved for the staircase. But his amusement faded as he checked the rooms on either side of the foyer. Where the fuck was Bryce? He’d last seen her with Fury, Juniper, and Athalar in the living room, but from this angle atop the stairs, he couldn’t see her—

Ruhn had made it three steps down the front staircase, dodging

discarded beer cans and plastic cups and someone’s zebra-print bra, when the open front doors darkened.

Or rather, the space within them darkened. Exactly as it had when those

demons had stormed through the Gates.

Ruhn gaped for a moment at the portal to Hel that had just replaced his

front doors.

Then he reached for the sword half-buckled at his back, working past

his brain fog to gather shadows in his other hand. Laughter and singing and talking stopped, and the firstlights guttered. The music shut off as if someone had yanked the power cord from the wall.

Then Bryce and Athalar were at the archway into the living room, his

sister now wearing Athalar’s hat, and the angel armed with a gun discreetly tucked against his thigh. Athalar was the only person Ruhn would allow to bring a gun into one of his parties. And Axtar—who was now nowhere to be seen.

Ruhn drew his sword as he leapt down the rest of the stairs, managing

to land gracefully on the other side of his sister. Flynn and Dec fell into place beside him. His shadows swirled up his left arm like twining snakes.

A faint light glowed from Bryce— No, that was the glow stick on her

arm.

A figure stalked from the darkness in the doorway. Straight out of Hel.

And in that moment, Ruhn knew three more things.

1. He wasn’t looking at a portal to Hel after all. Shadows

swirled there instead. Familiar, whispering shadows.

2. It wasn’t just the glow stick coiled around Bryce’s arm that

was shining. The star-shaped scar beneath her T-shirt blazed with iridescent light.

3. As a familiar golden-haired Fae male strode from those

shadows and into the foyer, Ruhn knew his night was about

to take a turn for the worse.

4

“Oh, come on,” Bryce hissed at the glowing scar between her breasts. Or what she could glimpse of it with the neckline of her T-shirt and her bra in the way. It lit up the fabric of both, and if she hadn’t been facing the towering Fae male who’d appeared out of a cloud of shadows, she might have used the moment to ponder why and how it glowed.

Partygoers had stopped dead in their revelry. Waiting for whatever shit

was about to go down.

And what asshole had turned off the music? Dramahounds. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Ruhn prowled closer to the

stranger.

The male’s tan face might have been ruggedly good-looking were it not

for the complete lack of feeling there. His light brown eyes were dead.

Humorless. His thin white sweater over black jeans and combat boots told Bryce he’d come from somewhere colder.

The crowd seemed to sense danger, too, and backed away until only

Hunt, Bryce, Ruhn, and his friends remained facing the stranger. She had no idea where Fury and Juniper were. The former was likely strategically positioned in the room to make sure she could intercept any danger before it reached her girlfriend. Good.

The stranger stalked forward, and Bryce braced herself, even as Hunt

casually angled himself between her and the male. Bryce held in her grin at the gesture. And found that grin vanishing instantly when the blond spoke, his accent rolling and rich.

“I was invited.”

The stranger turned to her and smirked, lifeless as a dead fish. “I don’t

believe we’ve met.” A nod toward her—her chest. “Though I know who you are, of course.” His eyes flicked over her. “You look better than expected. Not that I was expecting much.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Cormac?” Ruhn ground out,

stepping closer. But he sheathed the Starsword down his back once more.

The blond—Cormac—faced her brother. He sniffed once, then

chuckled. “You smell like cunt.”

Bryce nearly gagged at the thought. Cormac went on as Ruhn bristled,

“And I told you: I was invited.”

“Not to this fucking house,” Flynn said, moving to Ruhn’s side, Declan

flanking his other. A lethal unit.

Cormac assessed his surroundings. “You call this a house? I hadn’t

realized your standards had dropped so low, Lord Hawthorne.”

Declan snarled. “Fuck off, Cormac.” Marc came up behind him, teeth

bared with silent menace.

Any other opponent, Bryce knew the group would likely obliterate, but

this male was Avallen Fae: powerful, trained in combat from a young age, and merciless.

The male said, as if seeing her try to puzzle him out, “I’m your cousin,

Bryce.”

Hunt—the fucking bastard—snorted. “I don’t have any Fae cousins.” Bryce snapped. If only the stupid scar

would halt its glowing. If only people would go back to partying.

“That light says otherwise,” Cormac said with blatant confidence. “I

might be Ruhn’s cousin directly through his mother’s kin, but your father, King Einar, is Fae, and his line once crossed with ours long ago.” He held up his hand, and flame wreathed his fingers before winking out.

Bryce blinked. Her mother had never once spoken the Autumn King’s

name, and Bryce had only learned it through the news when she was old enough to use a computer.

“Why are you here?” Ruhn bit out.

From the corner of her vision lightning sizzled at Hunt’s fingertips. One

strike, and Hunt could fry this fucker.

Yet Cormac smiled. His dead eyes gleamed with nothing but contempt

as he bowed mockingly to Bryce. “I’m here to meet my bride.”

The words shot through Hunt’s mind fast enough that they doused his lightning, but Bryce tipped her head back and laughed.

No one else joined her.

And when Bryce had finished, she smirked at Cormac. “You’re

hilarious.”

“It is no joke,” Cormac said, face darkening. “It’s been decreed.” “By who?” Hunt snapped.

The Avallen male sized up Hunt with palpable disdain. Not someone

used to being questioned, then. Spoiled little prick. “By her sire, the Autumn King, and mine, the High King of the Avallen Fae.” Making this shithead a Crown Prince.

Bryce said coolly, “Last I checked, I wasn’t on the market.” Hunt crossed his arms, becoming a wall of muscle beside her. Let

Cormac see precisely who he’d be tangling with if he took another step closer to Bryce. Hunt willed tendrils of his lightning to crackle along his shoulders, his wings.

“You’re an unwed Fae female,” Cormac said, unmoved. “That means

you belong to your male kin until they decide to pass you to another. The decision has been made.”

From the living room archway, a delicate, dark figure emerged. Axtar.

She palmed a gun, but kept it at her thigh. No sign of Juniper—presumably, the faun was staying wherever Fury had instructed her to hide.

Cormac glanced toward the merc, and even his sneer faltered.

Every power broker on Midgard knew of Fury Axtar. What she was

capable of, if provoked.

Ruhn pointed to the door and snarled at Cormac, “Get the fuck out of

my house. I don’t care if you use your shadows or your own feet, but get out.”

Yet Cormac glowered at the Starsword peeking over Ruhn’s broad

shoulder. “Rumor has it that the sword sings for my bride, too.”

A muscle feathered in Ruhn’s jaw. Hunt didn’t know what to make of

that.

But Bryce stepped forward, star still blazing. “I’m not your bride,

asshole. And I’m not going to be, so scuttle back to whatever hole you crawled out of and tell your kings to find someone else. And tell them—”

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Cormac murmured.

Hunt didn’t particularly like the male’s appreciative tone. But he kept

his power reined in. Even a zap of lightning against Cormac could be seen as a declaration of war.

Fae were highly sensitive babies. Their tantrums could last centuries.

Bryce smiled sweetly at Cormac. “I get that you want to play Broody

Prince, but don’t ever fucking interrupt me again.”

Cormac started. Hunt hid his smirk, even as his blood heated at Bryce’s

irreverence.

Bryce went on, “My brother told you to leave his house.” Her skin

began to glow. “You don’t want me to have to ask you.”

The hair on Hunt’s neck rose. She’d blinded people with that power—

and that had been before the Drop. With all that magic backing her starlight … He hadn’t yet seen how it would manifest. Half hoped he’d find out now, with this asshole as a test subject.

Hunt eyed Flynn, Declan, and Marc—all of whom were tense and

primed to leap into the fray. And Ruhn …

Hunt didn’t know why Ruhn’s apparent satisfaction surprised him. He’d

expected wounded male pride, perhaps, at Bryce showing him up in his own home. Yet pride did shine from Ruhn’s face—for Bryce. Like the prince had been waiting for his sister to step into her power for a while now and he was honored to have her at his side.

Hunt’s attention shot back to Cormac as the Avallen Prince held up his

hands and slowly smiled at Bryce. The expression was as dead as his eyes. “I’ve seen all I needed to.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ruhn demanded. Shadows

rippled from his shoulders, a dark contrast to the light emanating from Bryce.

But shadows also swirled behind Cormac—darker, wilder than Ruhn’s,

like a stampede of stallions waiting to gallop over all of them. “I wanted to confirm that she has the gift. Thank you for demonstrating.” He set one foot into those untamed shadows. Bowed his head to Bryce. “I’ll see you at the altar.”

Bryce’s star winked out the moment he vanished, leaving only drifting

embers behind.

Bryce was dimly aware of the party ending: people filtering out through the front door, the countless eyes on her as she stood in the foyer, typing into her phone.

“There’s a train at seven tomorrow morning,” Bryce announced to

Hunt, who lingered at her side. As if afraid the Avallen male would reappear to snatch her away.

Not just any Avallen male: Prince Cormac. Her … fiancé. “There’s no way your mom will go,” Hunt said. “If by some miracle she

isn’t suspicious that you’re bumping them onto a train five hours earlier, then Randall will be.”

Juniper scrolled on her phone at Bryce’s other side. “Social channels are

empty right now, but …”

“All it takes is one person,” Fury finished from where she monitored

the front of the house with the same vigilance as Hunt. “I think I made my point clear about the consequences of that, though.”

Gods bless her, Fury really had. If any of you post, talk, or so much as

think about what went down here tonight, she’d declared with quiet authority to the awed partygoers, I’ll hunt you down and make you regret it.

No one had said anything, but Bryce had noticed more than a few

people deleting pictures from their phones as they hurried out.

Hunt said, “Getting your parents out of the city without them being

suspicious or finding out will be tricky, to say the least.” He angled his head. “You sure it’s not easier to tell them?”

“And risk my mom going ballistic? Doing something reckless?” And

that was to say nothing about what Randall might do if he thought the Autumn King was threatening Bryce’s happiness and control over her own life. Whatever her mom left of the Autumn King, Randall would be sure to put a bullet in it. “I’m not risking them like that.”

“They’re adults,” Fury said. “You can trust them to make rational

choices.”

“Have you met my mom?” Bryce burst out. “Does rational ever spring

to mind when you think about her? She makes sculptures of babies in beds of lettuce, for fuck’s sake.”

“I just think,” June jumped in, “that they’re going to find out anyway,

so maybe it’s better if it comes from you. Before they hear it from someone else.”

Bryce shook her head. “Nope. I want to be far, far away when they find

out. And get a few hundred miles between them and the Autumn King, too.”

Hunt grunted his agreement, and she threw him a grateful nod.

The sound of Declan shutting the front door pulled her attention from

the angel as the Fae male leaned back against it. “Well, my buzz is officially ruined.”

Flynn slumped onto the lowest steps of the staircase, a bottle of

whiskey in his hand. “Then we better start getting it back.” He swigged deeply before passing it up to Ruhn, who leaned against the banister with crossed arms, his blue eyes blazing into a near-violet. He’d been quiet these last few minutes.

Bryce had no idea where to start with him. About Cormac, about the

power she’d shown in Ruhn’s own house, about the star glowing for the Avallen Prince … any of it. So she said, “I take it that’s the cousin from your Ordeal.”

Ruhn, Dec, and Flynn nodded gravely. Her brother drank from the

bottle of whiskey.

“How close did Cormac get to killing you during your Ordeal?” Hunt

asked. Ruhn must have told him about it at some point this summer.

“Close,” Flynn said, earning a glare from Ruhn.

But Ruhn admitted, “It was bad.” Bryce could have sworn he didn’t

look at her as he added, “Cormac spent his whole life thinking he’d get the Starsword one day. That he’d go into the Cave of Princes and be proven worthy. He studied all the lore, learned all the lineage, pored over every account detailing the variations in the power. It, ah … didn’t go down well when I got it instead.”

“And now his fiancée has a claim to it, also,” Flynn said, and it was

Bryce’s turn to glare at the lord. She could have lived without anyone bringing that up again.

Ruhn seemed to force himself to look at Bryce as he said, “It’s true.” So

he’d seen her glare, then. “The sword’s as much yours as it is mine.”

Bryce waved a hand. “I’ll take it on weekends and holidays, don’t

worry.”

Hunt tossed in, “And it’ll get two Winter Solstices, so … double the

presents.”

Ruhn and the others gawked at them like they had ten heads, but Bryce

grinned at Hunt. He returned it with one of his own.

He got her—her humor, her fears, her hedging. Whatever it was,

Athalar got her.

“Is it true?” Juniper looped her elbow through Bryce’s and pressed

close. “About the legality of an engagement against Bryce’s will?”

That wiped the smile from Hunt’s face. And Bryce’s. Her mind raced,

each thought as swift and dizzying as a shooting star.

“Tell me there’s a way out of this, Ruhn.” She walked to her brother and

snatched the whiskey bottle from him. A faint light flared at his back—the Starsword. It hummed, a whining sound like a finger tracing the rim of a glass.

Ruhn’s stare met hers, questioning and wary, but Bryce stepped back.

The sword stopped singing.

It’s not going to bite, you know.

Bryce nearly flinched as her brother’s voice filled her mind. He used

the mind-speaking rarely enough that she often entirely forgot he had the gift.

It’s your sword. Not mine. You’re as much a Starborn Prince as I am a

princess.

He shot back, eyes glinting with stars, I’m not the kind of male whose

sense of pride is so brittle that I need to cling to a shiny weapon. If you want to use it, it’s yours.

She shook her head. You retrieved the blade—and apparently had to

deal with Cormac while doing it. That fact alone entitles you to keep it.

Ruhn’s laughter filled her mind, full of amusement and relief. But his

face remained serious as he said to the group, now staring at them, “I didn’t pay attention in class when we covered Fae law. Sorry.”

“Well, I did,” Marc said. “And I’ve already put some of my firm’s

associates on researching it. Any legal case or precedent that’s been uploaded into a database, short of whatever’s hidden in the Asteri Archives, we’ll be able to comb through.”

Declan added, “I’ll go hunting, too.” But even Dec, with his hacking

skills, couldn’t pierce the security around the private, ancient files of the Asteri.

“Thank you,” Bryce said, but she didn’t allow that shred of hope to

balloon in her chest. “Update me when you have anything.”

Ruhn started talking, but Bryce tuned him out, handing off the bottle of

whiskey to Juniper before slipping out onto the sagging front porch, dodging discarded cups and cans. Hunt was a storm wind at her back as she strode onto the small slice of grassy front lawn and breathed in the bustle of the Old Square before her.

“Why are you being so calm about this?” Hunt asked, his arms crossed.

The dry, warm night breeze ruffled his hair, his gray wings.

“Because this is some move in a game the Autumn King is playing,”

Bryce said. “He’s anticipating that I’m going to run to his house and fight him. I’m trying to figure out why that would help him. What his endgame is.”

And what her own might be. “Connecting the two most powerful Fae royal bloodlines is a pretty

clear endgame,” Hunt growled. “And you’re Starborn on top of it—you told me you’ve got the gifts of one of the first of the Starborn. And you’ve got the Horn. That makes you a massive bargaining chip for more power.”

“That’s too simple for the Autumn King. His games play out over years

—centuries. This engagement is the first step. Or maybe we’re already several steps along.” She just needed to find some way to get a few steps ahead of that without revealing her hand. The engagement would have to stand. For now.

“It’s bullshit.” Bryce steeled her spine. “I was really enjoying this summer, you know.

Today seems Hel-bent on ruining it for both of us.”

Hunt ducked his head. “You’d almost think this was planned by the

gods. They probably have a special task force: How to Fuck Over Bryce and Hunt in One Day.”

Bryce chuckled. “Celestina might wind up being a blessing. But …”

She asked Hunt, “You think the Autumn King might have timed this to coincide with you getting the news about Celestina?”

“To what end?” “To rattle us. To make us act, I don’t know.” She dared say, “Maybe he

thought you’d go after him, and it’d make you look bad in front of the new Archangel.”

Hunt stilled, and Bryce became keenly aware of the distance between

their bodies. “Again,” he said, voice husky, “to what end?”

“If you did something illegal,” Bryce mused, heart beginning to thunder

as he stepped closer, “like …”

“Kill a Crown Prince of the Fae?” Bryce chewed on her lip. “Celestina needs to set an example of how she

plans to rule. And punishing a powerful angel, a notorious angel acting out of line … that’d be the perfect way to demonstrate her power. And thus get you out of the picture for the Autumn King. He knows we’re a team.”

“A team,” Hunt said slowly. As if, out of everything she’d laid out, that

was what he chose to dwell on.

“You know what I mean,” Bryce said. “I’m not sure I do.” Had his voice dropped lower? “We’re roomies,” she said, her own voice getting breathy. “Roomies.” “Occasional Beer Pong Champions?” Hunt snatched the hat off her head and plunked it back on his own,

backward as usual. “Yes, the Autumn King truly fears our unholy beer pong alliance.”

Bryce smiled, letting it chase away the darkness lurking in her soul. But

Hunt added, “We can’t forget that Avallen has their own angle. Why’d they agree to the union?”

“You know what?” Bryce said. “Who cares about any of them? My

father, the Avallen Fae—screw them.” Only with Hunt could she be dismissive about this. He’d have her back, no matter what. “At least until we get my parents onto that train.”

“You still haven’t given me a convincing plan for how that will happen.

For all we know, they’re learning about this on the news.”

“Oh, my phone would already be exploding if my mother had heard.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “Maybe I should ask Fury to sneak into their hotel and disable their phones.”

“Is it bad if I think she should go one step further and tie them up,

throw them in the trunk of a car, and drive them home so they get there before the news breaks? Because that’s what Fury will likely do if you send her to that hotel.”

Bryce laughed, and the sound sang through her like silver bells. “Okay,

no Fury.” She looped her arm through Hunt’s, savoring the muscled mass of him as she steered them toward the low gate and sidewalk beyond. “Let’s watch old episodes of Beach House Hookup and come up with ways to trick my parents.”

One of his wings brushed along her back in the softest of caresses.

Every inch it touched lit up like firstlight. “Sounds like a normal Tuesday night.”

They meandered home, and despite Bryce’s flippant words, she found

herself slipping into a state of roiling darkness and thoughts like shooting stars. She’d been a fool to think she could lie low forever. She’d been willing to follow the Asteri’s order to lead a boring, normal life, but the rest of the world had different plans for her. And Hunt.

She was bringing her phone to her ear to call her parents with the news

that Oh, so sad, but Jesiba needs me to head over to her warehouse tomorrow and I think this might lead to a second chance at a job with her, so do you mind getting on the earlier train? when she and Hunt walked off the elevator and found the door to their apartment ajar.

If her mom and Randall had come over unexpectedly … Syrinx was barking inside, and Bryce lunged for the door, the memory

of another night washing red over her senses. Now, as then, the scent of blood was a coppery tang in the air, in the hallway, on the threshold of her door—

Not again. Not her parents— Hunt shoved her back as he angled himself at the doorway, gun out and

lightning wreathing his other hand, violence written in every taut line of his body, his raised wings.

Surprise flared in his dark eyes, and then he lowered the gun. Bryce

beheld what was in the center of the great room and swayed into Hunt with relief and shock.

Yes, the gods had clearly formed a How to Fuck Over Hunt and Bryce

task force.

Inside lay Ithan Holstrom, bleeding all over her pale wood floors.

5

Tharion Ketos had royally fucked up.

Literally. The River Queen had been pissed.

Which was why he was now struggling to keep his feet on a small

fishing vessel in a sea so stormy it made even his iron stomach churn. Up and down, down and up, the boat bobbed in the rain and swells, wind threatening to flay his skin to the bone, despite his thick black sweater and the tactical vest atop it.

He should be lounging on a rock in the Istros right now, preferably in

plain sight of whatever females walked along the quay. He certainly enjoyed finding not-so-covert photos of him on social media, with captions like: So hot it’s a miracle he doesn’t turn the Istros to steam!

That had been a particular favorite. Too bad it had also landed him here.

Punished by the River Queen because her daughter had cried over it.

He was accustomed to cold, had explored as deep as his mer’s gifts

would allow without his skull cracking like an egg, but this northern stretch of the Haldren Sea was different. It sucked the life from one’s bones, its grayness creeping into the soul.

Though swimming would be a Hel of a lot less nauseating.

Tharion ducked his head against the lashing rain, his dark red hair

plastered to his scalp, dripping icy water down his neck. Gods, he wanted to go home. Back to the dry, blistering heat of a Lunathion summer.

“Submersible’s within range,” the captain called. The female dolphin

shifter was tucked in the safety of the command vestibule. Lucky asshole. “We’re starting to get a live feed.”

Barely able to maintain his grip on the rain-slick rail of the boat,

Tharion aimed for the vestibule. It could only fit two people, so he had to wait until the first mate—a shark shifter—squeezed out before entering.

The warmth was like a kiss from Solas himself, and Tharion sighed as he slid the door shut and observed the small screen beside the wheel.

The images from the trench were murky: flurries of floating bits in a

whole lot of darkness. If they’d been on a battleship—Hel, even a yacht— they’d have had giant screens with crystal clarity. But this fishing boat, capable of slipping past the Pangeran navy’s radar, had been the best bet.

The captain stood before the screen, pointing with a brown finger to a

rising number in its upper right corner. “We’re nearing the requested depth.”

Tharion sank into the swivel chair anchored into the floor. Technically,

it was the captain’s chair, but he didn’t care. He was paying for this expedition. Granted, it was with his Blue Court–issued credit card, but he could damn well sit where he wanted to.

The captain raised a dark brow. “You know what you’re looking for?”

She’d come highly recommended by a few spies in his employ—a discreet and bold female who wouldn’t flee at the first hint of imperial battleships.

Tharion surveyed the screen. “A body.” The captain whistled. “You know the odds of that are—” “She was tied to lead blocks and dropped into the water around here.”

By the Hind.

“If she’s not in the House of Many Waters, she’s long dead.” No shit. “I just need to find her.” What remained of her, after two weeks

at the bottom of the sea. Frankly, her bones and body had likely exploded from the pressure.

His queen had learned of the poor girl’s fate through whatever the rivers

and seas whispered to her. He’d known it was how the River Queen kept tabs on her sisters, who ruled the other bodies of water around Midgard, but he hadn’t realized how precise the information could be—she’d been able to tell him to hunt for lead blocks, and where to look. And what manner of Vanir, exactly, Sofie was: a thunderbird. Ogenas have mercy on them all.

It was on the slim chance that Sofie’s Vanir body had survived the

plunge—and hadn’t been picked apart yet by scavengers—that he’d come.

His queen seemed to be under the impression that Sofie was an asset, even dead.

His queen had refused to tell him more than that. She’d only said that

he was to retrieve the body and bring it back to the Blue Court. Presumably to search it for intel or weapons. He prayed he wouldn’t be the one to do it.

“We’re at depth,” the captain announced, and the camera feed halted.

More white bits swirled past as the camera pivoted to reveal the silty, alien seafloor. “Any idea where to start, Captain?”

Captain. Tharion still found the title ridiculous, and more than a little

painful. The case that had earned him the recent promotion had been his sister’s murder. He’d have traded in the title in a heartbeat if it meant he could have Lesia back. Hear his younger sister’s boisterous laugh one more time. Catching and killing her murderer hadn’t eased that feeling.

“Based on the current, she should have landed around here,” Tharion

said, letting his water magic drift to the bottom, cringing at the ocean’s viciousness. Not at all like the clear calm of the Istros. Granted, plenty of monsters dwelled within the Blue River, but the turquoise water sang to him, laughed with him, cried with him. This sea only bellowed and raged.

Tharion monitored the camera feed. “Rotate the camera to the west—

and move the submersible ahead about ten yards.”

Through the glare of the firstlight beams atop the remote submersible,

more fleshy white bits floated by. This was what the wraith Viktoria had been damned by Micah to endure. The former Archangel had shoved her essence into a magically sealed box while the wraith remained fully conscious despite having no corporeal form, and dropped her to the floor of the Melinoë Trench.

That the trench’s bottom was another fifteen miles deeper than the

seafloor before them sent a shiver along Tharion’s tiger-striped forearms.

The wraith’s shoebox-sized Helhole had been bespelled against the pressure. And Viktoria, not needing food or water, would live forever.

Trapped. Alone. No light, nothing but silence, not even the comfort of her own voice.

A fate worse than death. With Micah now sitting in a trash bag in some

city dump, would anyone dare retrieve the wraith? Athalar had shown no signs of rebellion, and Bryce Quinlan, the last Tharion had heard, was content to return to a normal life.

Hel, after this spring, hadn’t everyone wanted to return to normal?

The River Queen didn’t seem to want to. She’d sent him hunting for a

rebel spy’s remains. To retrieve her Very Fucking Important corpse.

Even if the mere fact that the River Queen was searching for the body

of a rebel spy could damn her. Damn all of them.

And he’d be first in the line of fire. But he never dared to challenge her

about the contradictions of it: she punished him for making her daughter cry, yet what would happen should he be killed or harmed during one of her punishments? Wouldn’t her daughter cry then?

Her daughter, as capricious as her mother—and as jealous. If she was a

bit of a possessive monster, it was because her mother had taught her well.

He’d been a fool not to see it before he’d taken her maidenhead and

sworn himself to her a decade ago. Before he’d ever made himself her betrothed. Beloved of the River Queen’s daughter. A prince-in-training.

A fucking nightmare.

Judging by the fact that he had kept his job these ten years, and even

been promoted, her mother apparently still had no idea what to do with him.

Unless her daughter had intervened on his behalf, to keep him safe. The thought of that alone—that he had to stay on her good side—had made him keep his hands to himself and his cock in his pants. Fins. Whatever.

And he’d accepted the punishments, however unfair and undeserved

and dangerous, that were thrown his way.

“I’m not seeing anything.” The captain adjusted the control toggle on

the dash.

“Keep moving. Do a complete scan within a one-mile perimeter.” He

wouldn’t return to his queen empty-handed if he could help it.

“We’ll be here for hours,” the captain countered, frowning.

Tharion just settled into the chair, glancing to the first mate sheltering

against the side of the vestibule.

They knew what they were getting into by coming here. Knew what

kind of storms stalked these seas at this point in the year. If the shifter got tired of the wind and rain, he could jump beneath the waves.

Even if a shark in these waters was the least of the terrors.

Three and a half hours later, Tharion lifted a hand. “Go back to the right.

No—yeah. There. Can you get closer?”

The remote submersible had floated past boiling-hot sea vents, past

muck and rock and all manner of strange creatures. But there, tucked among a cluster of red-and-white tuber worms … a square rock.

Only Vanir or human hands could have made it. “I’ll be damned,” the captain murmured, leaning toward the screen, the

light illuminating her angular face. “Those are lead blocks.”

He suppressed a shiver. The River Queen had been right. Down to the

last detail. “Circle them.”

But … Chains draped from the block onto the seafloor. They were

empty.

The captain observed, “Whoever those chains held is long gone. They

either got eaten or they exploded from the pressure.”

Tharion marked the chains, nodding. But his gaze snagged on

something.

He glanced at the captain to see if she’d noticed the anomaly, but her

face revealed no sign of surprise. So Tharion kept silent, letting her bring the small submersible back up to the surface, where the first mate hauled it onto the deck.

Two hours later, back on land—soggy and muddy from the rain—

Tharion calmed his chattering teeth long enough to call his queen.

The River Queen answered after the first ring. “Talk.” Used to the curt, yet ethereal voice, Tharion said, “I found the lead

blocks. The chains were still attached.”

“So?” “There was no body.” A sigh of disappointment. He shivered yet again

—not entirely from the cold. “But the shackles had been unlocked.”

The sigh paused. He’d learn to read her pauses, as varied as the life in

her river. “You’re sure of this?”

He refrained from asking why the currents hadn’t told her about this

particularly vital detail. Maybe they were as capricious as she. Tharion said mildly, “No signs of damage. At least as far as I could tell on the crappy screen.”

“You think Sofie Renast freed herself?”

“I don’t know.” Tharion climbed into the black SUV that he’d drive to

the private heliport in the north of Pangera, and turned the heat to full blast.

It’d probably take the entire hour’s drive inland to warm his frozen body. “But I sure as Hel don’t think she ever made it to the seafloor.”

Tharion drove down the rough road, mud spraying, windshield wipers

swishing faintly.

His queen said, “Then either someone got there before us … or Sofie is

alive. Interesting, that the water did not whisper of that. As if it were silenced.” Tharion had a feeling he knew where this was going. “Find her,” she ordered. “I’d bet my court that she’s looking for her brother. She went to great lengths to free him from Kavalla. The sea whispered that he is as gifted as she. Find him, and we find her. And vice versa. But even if we only find the boy … he will be valuable indeed.”

Tharion didn’t dare ask why she wanted either of them. He could invent

reasons for wanting the rebel, but the boy … Emile Renast had his sister’s gift, and that was it. A powerful one, but he was a kid. Hadn’t even made the Drop. And as far as Tharion knew, his queen wasn’t in the habit of using child soldiers. But Tharion couldn’t say anything other than: “I’ll begin the search immediately.”

6

Bryce tore through the cabinet beneath her sink. Bottles of hair products, old makeup palettes, dead blow-dryers flew out and scattered behind her.

Where the fuck had she put it—

There. Bryce yanked out the white first aid kit, Syrinx doing a little

dance next to her. As if the golden-furred chimera had found it himself.

Cheeky pup.

Leaping to her feet as she opened the lid, she rifled through the

antiseptic ointment, bandages, and vial of pain-relieving potion. She frowned down at Syrinx. “This stuff never goes bad, right?”

Syrinx scrunched his snout, huffing as if to say, Beats me!

Bryce scratched under his chin and returned to the great room to find

Hunt crouching beside Ithan, whom they’d laid out on the coffee table.

Ithan’s face … Burning Solas.

Well, he was awake. And talking. She hoped he hadn’t heard her and

Hunt bickering over where to put his barely conscious form a moment ago.

Hunt had wanted to set Ithan on the couch, and Bryce hadn’t been able to stop herself from shrieking about ruining the white cushions. So the coffee table it was.

Hunt and Ithan were murmuring too low for Bryce to understand, and

they halted as she approached. Though she could detect no outward sign of it, Hunt’s lightning seemed to crackle in the air around him. Or maybe that was Hunt’s presence, once again doing funny things to her senses. Bryce lifted the first aid kit. “Found it.”

Ithan grunted. “It’s … it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Your mouth literally started bleeding again saying that,” Bryce said,

dropping the kit on the table next to Ithan before fishing inside for sterile wipes. She hadn’t seen him since the attack last spring. Hadn’t spoken to him.

Bryce waved a hand over the bruised and swollen face that held no

resemblance to the handsome, charming features she’d once known so well. “I don’t even know where to start with this … mess.” She didn’t just mean his face.

“You and me both,” Ithan mumbled, and hissed as Bryce dabbed at a

slice across his brow. He pulled his head from her reach. “It’ll heal. That one’s already smaller.”

“I’d guess claws made that,” Hunt said, arms crossed. Syrinx hopped

onto the sectional, turned in a circle three times, then curled up in a ball.

Ithan said nothing. Bryce reached for the wound again, but he pulled his

head farther back, wincing in pain.

“Why the fuck are you here, Ithan?” Hunt’s voice was like gravel.

Ithan’s brown eyes, one half-swollen, met Bryce’s. Ire glowed in them.

“I didn’t tell them to bring me here. Perry … my pack’s Omega … She arranged it.”

A fuzzy memory of a brown-haired female emerged. Perry …

Ravenscroft. Amelie’s younger sister. “She did this to you?”

Ithan huffed a raw laugh, then winced. His ribs must be— Bryce lifted Ithan’s bloody gray T-shirt, revealing disgustingly carved

abs and—“Holy shit, Ithan.”

He yanked the shirt back over the extensive bruising. “It’s fine.” “Those look like broken ribs,” Hunt said wryly. “Definitely broken ribs, Athalar,” Bryce replied, sitting back on her

heels. “And a broken arm, from the way he’s cradling it.”

“Skull fracture’s healed,” Hunt observed with equal distance, as if they

were on one of his favorite Vanir crime procedurals. Ithan’s eyes flashed again.

“I’m sensing hostility and a good dose of male pride,” Bryce said. “Throw in some stubbornness and I’d say we’ve got ourselves a classic

case of stupidity,” Hunt answered.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” Ithan demanded.

Bryce smiled at Hunt, all thoughts of the betrothal and her father and

the Asteri vanishing at the amusement glittering in the angel’s eyes. But she stopped smiling as she faced Ithan again.

“I promise to clean you up as quickly as possible, and you’ll be on your

way,” she said.

“Take your time. It’s not like I have anywhere to go.” Hunt stilled. “Amelie kicked you out?” “Sabine kicked me out,” Ithan growled. “She, Amelie, and the others

did … this.”

“Why?” Bryce managed to say.

Ithan met her stare. “Why do you think?” Bryce shook her head, disgust

creeping through her. Ithan said, “You know how Sabine operates. Some reporter cornered me at a bar a few weeks ago about the attack last spring, and I talked about … what happened. How I helped you. The article came out this morning. Sabine apparently wasn’t a fan.”

“Oh?” Hunt lifted a brow.

Ithan’s bruised throat bobbed. “I might have also defended you,” he

said to Bryce. “Against a nasty quote from Sabine.”

Bryce resisted the urge to pull out her phone to search for the article.

Nothing in there would make her feel better about this. So she said, “Sabine’s a City Head. This is really what she wants to waste her time on?”

“Wolves don’t talk shit about other wolves.” “But you did,” Hunt countered. “So did Sabine.” He said sadly, wearily to Bryce, “The Prime called

you a wolf. That’s good enough for me. I, ah … It didn’t sit well, what Sabine said. But I guess the article didn’t sit well with her, either. So I’m out.”

Bryce exhaled a long, long breath. “Why bring you here?” Hunt asked.

Ithan grimaced with pain. “Perry remembered that we were friends,

once upon a time.” He tried and failed to rise. “But give me a few minutes, then I’ll be gone.”

“You’re staying here,” Bryce said. Honestly, after the night she’d had, it

was the last thing she wanted. Especially when she still had to call her mom and convince her to get out of town. Gods, if Ember found out Ithan was

here, she’d never leave. She’d loved him like a son. Bryce shook off the thought. “You’re lucky Sabine didn’t kill you.”

“Trust me, she wanted to,” Ithan said bitterly. “But I wasn’t worth the

legal headache that would cause.”

Bryce swallowed. Connor’s little brother had once been her best friend,

after Danika. Fury and June had come after that. Gods, how many messages had she and Ithan swapped over the years? How many juvenile jokes had they shared? How many times had she bounced in the stands at one of his sunball games, screaming her lungs out for him?

The male before her was a stranger. “I should go,” Ithan said thickly. Like he remembered their history, too.

Read it on her face.

“Sit the fuck down,” Hunt said. “You can’t even walk.” “Fine,” Ithan conceded. “One night.” He had to be desperate, then.

Fighting the tightness in her chest, Bryce pulled out her phone. “Good.”

She noted the time. Almost midnight. Her parents were likely about to go to bed. “I have to make a call.”

Hunt fixed a cup of decaf just to give himself something to do as Ithan lay bleeding on the coffee table behind him. Bryce’s voice as she spoke to her parents filtered down the hall in bits and pieces.

We’ll plan a long weekend next time. Maybe Hunt and I can come up to

you guys. I think he’d love to finally see Nidaros.

Hunt’s lips quirked upward. Bringing him home to her parents, huh? No

matter that she was lying through her teeth.

The coffee machine finished a heartbeat before Bryce said, “All right.

I’ll meet you at your hotel at six. Yep. Bright and early. Okay. Love you.

Bye.”

Hunt blew on the steaming-hot coffee as Bryce padded back down the

hall. “Everything good?” he asked her.

“Aside from the fact that I have to be up in a few hours, sure.” Bryce

slid her phone onto the kitchen counter. “Tickets are switched.” She peered at Ithan, whose eyes were closed. But Hunt had no doubt the wolf was listening.

“Right,” Bryce said. “Beds.” “I’m good on the couch,” Ithan croaked.

Hunt was inclined to agree, but Bryce said, “Oh no. You’re in my room.

I won’t have you bleeding all over my white couch.”

Hunt said roughly, “I’ll sleep on the couch. Holstrom, you can have my

room.”

“Nope,” Bryce countered. “It’s fine. My bed is big.” Hunt shot back, “Then you sleep on the couch and give Holstrom the

bed.”

“With my back problems?” Before Hunt could ask what the Hel she

was talking about, she said, “I’m tired, and I don’t want to argue.

Conversation over.”

Ithan cracked open an eye. Hunt reined in his growl of frustration.

Fifteen minutes later, Hunt lay in his own bed, teeth gritted as he stared

at the ceiling, with only a snoring Syrinx for company.

It was fine. Totally fucking fine that Ithan Holstrom was sharing

Bryce’s bed.

Totally. Fucking. Fine.

His bed, his blood roared. Even if he hadn’t been near it in months. His

bed, his Bryce, who’d emerged from the bathroom in her sleep shorts and a faded, threadbare T-shirt that did nothing to hide the shadow of her nipples behind the purple fabric. Thankfully, Holstrom’s eyes were too swollen for Hunt to notice if the male looked. Not that it really mattered. He trusted Bryce. Knew precisely what—and who—she wanted.

But … it didn’t matter that Holstrom had come to Bryce’s defense

during the attack, or in some stupid article. He’d been a nasty fuck to her in the two years before that. And had let Amelie run rampant, tormenting Bryce over the death of his brother.

And fine—trust aside, maybe he was slightly on edge. Holstrom was

good-looking, when he wasn’t beaten to Hel and back. He’d been a star sunball player at CCU. Hunt remembered watching a few of the games in the 33rd’s lounge in the Comitium, marveling at Holstrom’s speed and agility. The male hadn’t played the sport for two years now, but he was still built.

Stupid, jealous idiot. For fuck’s sake, having Holstrom here bothered

him more than that asshole Cormac claiming he’d marry Quinlan.

He hated himself just a little bit as he pulled his phone from the

nightstand and typed in Ithan Holstrom Sabine Fendyr Bryce Quinlan.

The article popped up immediately.

Hunt skimmed it. Read what Sabine had said and focused on his

breathing. On not leaping into the skies and shredding the Prime Apparent into pieces.

“Bryce Quinlan is nothing but a spoiled party girl who was

conveniently in the right place during the attack. My wolves saved innocents. She’s a pathetic fame-chaser.”

Hunt ground his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. Toward the bottom, he found

Holstrom’s sound bite.

“The wolves only went to Asphodel Meadows because of Bryce. She got

the call for help out, and held the line until we could provide backup. She saved this city. She’s a hero, as far as I’m concerned. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Especially people who weren’t even in this city during the attack.”

Well, Hunt didn’t blame Sabine for being pissed. The truth hurt.

Hunt sighed and was about to set his phone back onto the nightstand

when it buzzed with a message from Isaiah. Thoughts???

He knew Isaiah was asking about Celestina’s appointment. Too early to

tell, he wrote back. Too early for hope, too.

Isaiah answered immediately. She’ll be here tomorrow evening at five.

Try to play nice, Hunt. She’s not Micah.

Hunt sent back a thumbs-up. But sleep was a long time coming.

Bryce gazed at her bedroom ceiling, listening to the wet, labored breathing of the male beside her.

Her mom and dad had bought her lies—hook, line, and sinker. Of

course, it meant she’d be getting up in four hours, but it was a price worth paying. No news about her engagement had been leaked yet. She could only pray it wouldn’t until their train was out of the city.

Ithan shifted slightly, the sound of the blankets loud in the silence. It

was strange to have him here, his scent filling her nose. So similar to Connor’s scent—

“I could have slept on the couch,” Ithan said into the darkness.

“I don’t trust Athalar not to smother you with a pillow.” Ithan huffed a laugh. “He holds a grudge, huh?” “You have no idea.” Silence fell again, thick and heavy. She’d wanted Ithan right where she

could see him. It was as simple as that. Wards on this place or not, she wasn’t about to leave him unguarded when Sabine and Amelie might change their minds about the paperwork being too much trouble. She’d lost one Holstrom already.

“Danika had me keyed to the locks,” Ithan said. “Right before …

everything. She showed me this place—wanted me in on the surprise.

That’s how I got in.”

Bryce’s throat clogged. “Oh.” “Is it true that Danika helped you make the Drop?” Since her voice had been broadcast through the Gates into every part of

the city, it was common knowledge that Danika Fendyr had something to do with Bryce’s Drop, but rumors about exactly what ranged widely.

“Yeah,” Bryce said. “She, ah … She was my Anchor.” “I didn’t know that was possible.” “Me neither.” His breathing thinned. Bryce said, “I … Ithan, when I saw Danika

during the Search, she told me that the others—Connor and Nathalie and the whole Pack of Devils—held off the Reapers to buy her time to be there with me. They saved me, too. Connor saved me.”

Ithan said nothing for a long moment. When was the last time they’d

spoken like this? Calm, quiet. Without hate spewing like acid, burning everything it touched? Then Ithan said, “He loved you more than anyone.”

Her heart strained. “He loved you more than anyone.” “He thought you were his mate.” Bryce shut her eyes against the punch that slammed into her gut. “In the

wolf sense of the word?”

“What other sense is there? Yeah, the wolf sense.” There were several definitions of the term mate—though Bryce

supposed that to Ithan, to a shifter, only one mattered: one’s true lover, predestined by Urd.

The Fae had a similar concept—a mate was a bond deeper than

marriage, and beyond an individual’s control. The angels, she knew, used

the term far more lightly: for the malakim, it was akin to a marriage, and matings could be arranged. Like breeding animals in a zoo.

But for Connor, if he’d thought Bryce was his mate … Her stomach

twisted again.

“Did you love him?” Ithan whispered. “You know I did,” Bryce said, voice thick. “We waste so much time. Maybe it’s our curse as immortals. To see

time as a luxury, a never-ending ocean.” He loosed a long breath. “I wasted a lot of it.”

Bryce couldn’t tell what he was referring to. “Real poetic of you.” Ithan

let out a soft laugh. In the air-conditioned dark, Bryce asked, “Why did you quit sunball?”

She felt Ithan tense, the mattress shifting. “Because it’s a stupid game,”

he said, voice empty, and turned onto his side with a groan.

Bryce had no idea how to respond. So she closed her eyes, rubbing idly

at the scar on her chest, and prayed for Luna to send her into a dreamless, heavy sleep.

7

“This is bullshit.” Ruhn paced the ornate rugs of his father’s study as the grandfather clock in the corner chimed two in the morning. “You know it’s total fucking bullshit.”

Lounging in a crimson leather armchair by the darkened fireplace, the

Autumn King said nothing. The experiments and nonsense he worked on day and night boiled and bubbled away, the sound a steady hum in the background.

“What’s the matter, cousin? Feeling possessive of your sister?” Cormac

smirked from where he leaned against the black marble mantel, white sweater stretched tight over his muscled chest. Not one golden hair on his head out of place.

Fucker.

Ruhn ignored Cormac’s taunt and said to his father, “We live in a

modern city. In modern times. There are lawyers by the dozen who have endless resources to challenge this—and courts that might be amenable to setting a new precedent that protects the rights of Fae females.”

“Bryce will arrive willingly at the marriage altar,” his father said. “As

will you.”

Cormac’s mouth curled upward. “I hear you’re engaged to Hypaxia

Enador. Congratulations.” Ruhn scowled at him. Cormac went on, sizing up Ruhn, “Of course, the marriage is unorthodox, considering your bride’s family and bloodline.”

Ruhn stiffened. “You’ve got some shit to spew about Hypaxia, then let’s

hear it.”

But Cormac said to the Autumn King, “He doesn’t know?” His father, damn him, seemed bored as he said, “It didn’t seem

necessary. My order is law.”

Ruhn glanced between them. “What is this?” His father, features tightening with distaste—as if disappointed that

Ruhn hadn’t learned it himself—said, “The late Queen Hecuba had two daughters, from different sires. Hypaxia’s sire, Hecuba’s coven learned afterward, was a powerful necromancer from the House of Flame and Shadow. Hypaxia seems to have inherited his gifts alongside her mother’s.”

Ruhn blinked. Slowly. Hypaxia could raise and speak to the dead. All

right. He could live with that. “Cool.”

Flames danced along his father’s hair, dancing over his shoulders. “Her

older sister, however, was sired by a shape-shifting male. A stag.”

“So?” Cormac snorted. “Hypaxia’s half sister is better known as the Hind.”

Ruhn gaped at him. How had he not known this? “She didn’t inherit any witch gifts,” Cormac continued, “and was handed over to her father’s kin.

The crown naturally went to Hypaxia. But it seems that since your bride has been crowned queen, the question of her necromancy has become … an issue for the witches.”

“It’s of no bearing on this conversation,” his father said. “Ruhn shall

marry her, necromancy or not, odious sister or not.”

“My father found Hypaxia’s background to be problematic,” Cormac

said.

“Then it is a good thing your father is not marrying her,” the Autumn

King countered.

Cormac shut his mouth, and Ruhn held in his grin of delight.

But his father went on, “Ruhn shall marry Hypaxia, and Bryce Quinlan

shall marry you, Prince Cormac. There will be no more debate.”

“You do remember that Bryce and Athalar are together?” Ruhn said.

“Try to get between them, and you’ll get a refresher course on why he was called the Umbra Mortis.”

“Last my spies reported, she still does not bear his scent. So I can only

assume they have not consummated their relationship.”

Just talking about this with his father was gross.

Cormac cut in, “One day, she’ll be Queen of Avallen. She’d be a fool to

throw it away on a bastard angel.”

Ruhn spat, “You need Bryce more than she needs either of you. She’s

Starborn.”

The Autumn King’s teeth flashed. “If Bryce wished to remain free of

our household, then she should not have been so brazen about showing off her power.”

“Is that what this is about?” Fire seared through Ruhn’s veins. “That she

showed you up? That she has more power than you? What—you needed to put her back in her place?”

“You’re delusional,” Cormac’s grin promised violence. “I am stooping

to marry your sister. Many of my people will consider the union a disgrace.”

“Careful,” the Autumn King warned, true anger sparking in his

whiskey-colored eyes. “Regardless of her human lineage, Bryce is an heir to the Starborn line. More so than my son.” He threw a frown dripping with disdain at Ruhn. “We have not seen starlight with such force for thousands of years. I do not take handing her over to Avallen lightly.”

“What the fuck are you getting from it?” Nausea clawed its way up

Ruhn’s throat.

His father answered, “Your sister has one value to me: her breeding

potential. Both of our royal houses will benefit from the union.”

Cormac added, “And the continued commitment to the alliance between

our peoples.”

“Against what?” Had everyone lost their minds? “A weakening of magic in the royal bloodline,” Cormac said. “As

recent generations have demonstrated.” He waved with a flame-crusted hand toward Ruhn and his shadows.

“Fuck you,” Ruhn hissed. “Is this about the war in Pangera? The

rebellion?” He’d heard rumors recently that Ophion had taken out four Omega submersibles in the north. Four. Some insane shit had to be going on over there. His father had even hinted at it in the late spring, when he’d announced Ruhn’s betrothal. That war was coming, and they needed to shore up allies.

“It is about ensuring that the Fae retain our power and birthright,” his

father said. His icy voice had always belied the merciless flame in his

blood. “Your sister can imbue that into her offspring with Cormac.”

Cormac grunted his agreement, flames winking out.

Ruhn tried again. “For fuck’s sake, leave Bryce out of this. Don’t we

have other royals we can pair off to punch out some babies?”

“I didn’t remember you whining so much, Ruhn,” Cormac said. “Before or after you tried to kill me? Or when you buried a sword in

Dec’s gut?”

Cormac’s eyes gleamed like hot coals. “Just wanted to feel you boys

out.” He pushed off the mantel and strode for the shut doors. “You know,” Cormac drawled over his shoulder, “the Starborn used to intermarry.

Brother wed sister, aunt married nephew, and so on. All to keep the bloodline pure. Since you seem so heavily invested in who shares Bryce’s bed, perhaps the old traditions could be revived for you two.”

“Get the Hel out,” Ruhn snarled. His shadows writhed at his fingertips,

whips ready to snap for the Avallen Prince’s neck.

“You might rebel all you like, Ruhn Danaan, but you are a Crown

Prince, as I am. Our fates are the same. But I know which one of us will rise to meet it.”

Then he was gone.

Our fates are the same. Cormac meant that they would both be kings,

but Ruhn knew his fate was more complicated than that.

The royal bloodline shall end with you, Prince. The Oracle’s voice

floated through his mind, twisting up his insides. He might very well not live long enough to see himself crowned. His blood chilled. Was it because Cormac would lead some sort of coup?

He shook it off, turning to his father. “Why are you doing this?” “That you have to ask shows me you’re no true son of mine.” The words seared through him. Nothing could ever hurt worse than

what had already been done to him by this male, the scars he bore on his arms from it, mostly covered by the sleeves of his tattoos. But the words … yeah, they stung.

Ruhn refused to let the old bastard see it, though. Would never let him

see it. “And I suppose you think Cormac will become that true son by marrying Bryce.”

His father’s lips curled upward, eyes as lifeless as the Pit. “Cormac has

always been the son I should have had. Rather than the one I was burdened

with.”

8

“Today’s the big day, huh?”

Hunt turned from where he’d been staring at the coffee machine,

willing the grinding of the beans to drown out the thoughts roaring in his head. Bryce leaned against the white marble counter behind him, clad in leggings and an old T-shirt.

Hunt tucked in his gray wings and saluted. “Approachable Asshole,

reporting for duty.” Her lips curved upward, but he asked, “How’d it go with your parents?” She’d left well before he was up.

“Perfectly.” She feigned brushing dirt off her shoulders. “Not a whisper

about the engagement. I think Randall suspected something, but he was game to play along.”

“Five gold marks says your mom calls before noon to start yelling.” Her grin was brighter than the morning sun streaming outside the

windows. “You’re on.” She angled her head, surveying his daily uniform: his usual black battle-suit for the 33rd. “You should see the decorations that went up overnight—apparently, the city’s rolling out the welcome mat, and sparing no expense. Banners, flowers, sparkly-clean streets, even in the Old Square. Not one drop of drunken-idiot vomit to be seen or smelled.”

“The appointment of a new Governor is a pretty big deal,” he said,

wondering where she was going with this.

“Yep.” Then Bryce asked casually, “Want me to come with you today?” There it was. Something in his chest kindled at the offer. “No hand-

holding needed, Quinlan. But thanks.”

Bryce’s eyes glowed—pure Fae predator lurking there. “Remember

what we did to the last two Archangels, Hunt,” she said quietly. That was new—the raw power that thundered beneath her words. “If Celestina does something fucked up, we’ll react accordingly.”

“Bloodthirsty, Quinlan?” She didn’t smile. “You might be heading in there without me today, but

I’m a phone call away.”

His chest ached. She’d do it—back him up against a fucking Archangel,

Solas burn him. “Noted,” he said thickly. He nodded toward the hallway. “How’s our guest?”

“He looks a lot better this morning, though the broken ribs have some

mending left to do. He was still sleeping when I left.”

“What’s the plan?” Hunt kept his voice neutral. He’d slept terribly last

night, every sound sending him lurching from sleep. Bryce, of course, appeared as beautiful as ever.

“Ithan can stay as long as he wants,” Bryce said simply. “I’m not

turning him over to Sabine.”

“Glad to hear it,” Ithan said from behind her, and even Hunt started.

The male had crept up with preternatural silence. He did look better.

Blood still crusted Holstrom’s short golden-brown hair, but the swelling around his eyes had vanished, leaving only a few purple streaks. Most of the cuts were healed, except the thick slash across his brow. That’d take another day or two. Ithan pointed past Hunt. “Is that coffee?”

Hunt busied himself with pouring three cups, passing one to Quinlan

first. “A drop of coffee in a cup of milk, just as you like it.”

“Asshole.” She swiped the mug. “I don’t know how you drink it

straight.”

“Because I’m a grown-up.” Hunt passed the second mug to Ithan,

whose large hands engulfed the white ceramic cup that said I Survived Class of 15032 Senior Week and All I Got Was This Stupid Mug!

Ithan peered at it, his mouth twitching. “I remember this mug.” Hunt fell silent as Bryce let out a breathy laugh. “I’m surprised you do,

given how drunk you were. Even though you were a sweet baby frosh.”

Ithan chuckled, a hint of the handsome, cocky male Hunt had heard

about. “You and Danika had me doing keg stands at ten in the morning.

How was I supposed to stay sober?” The wolf sipped from his coffee. “My

last memory from that day is of you and Danika passed out drunk on a couch you’d moved right into the middle of the quad.”

“And why was that your last memory?” Bryce asked sweetly. “Because I passed out next to you,” Ithan said, grinning now.

Bryce smiled, and damn if it didn’t do something to Hunt’s heart. A

smile of pain and joy and loss and longing—and hope. But she cleared her throat, peering at the clock. “I need to get into the shower. I’ll be late for work.” With a swish of her hips, she padded down the hallway.

Syrinx scratched at Hunt’s calf, and Hunt hissed, “Absolutely not. You

had one breakfast already.” Probably two, if Bryce had fed him before going to meet her parents. Syrinx flopped down beside his steel bowl and let out a whine. Hunt tried to ignore him.

He found Ithan watching him carefully. “What?” Hunt said, not

bothering to sound pleasant.

Ithan only sipped from his mug again. “Nothing.” Hunt gulped a mouthful of coffee. Glanced down the hall to make sure

Bryce was indeed in her room. His voice dropped to a low growl. “Allow me to repeat what I said to you last night. You bring trouble in here, to Bryce, and I will fucking gut you.”

Ithan’s mouth twitched upward. “I’m shaking, Athalar.” Hunt didn’t smile back. “Are you suddenly cool with her because she’s

a princess? Because of the Horn and the Starborn shit?”

Ithan’s nose crinkled with the beginnings of a snarl. “I don’t care about

any of that.”

“Then why the fuck did you bother to defend her in that article? You

had to know there’d be consequences with Sabine. You practically called Sabine out.”

“Danika showed up for her. My brother and the rest of the Pack of

Devils showed up for her this spring. If they’re not holding a grudge, then how can I?”

“So you needed permission from your dead brother to be nice to her?” Ithan’s snarl rattled the cabinets. “Bryce was my best friend, you know.

She had Danika, yeah, but I only had her. You’ve known Bryce for what—a few months? We were friends for five years. So don’t fucking talk about me, my brother, or her as if you know anything about us. You don’t know shit, Umbra Mortis.”

“I know you were a dick to her for two years. I watched you stand by

while Amelie Ravenscroft tormented her. Grow the fuck up.”

Ithan bared his teeth. Hunt bared his own right back.

Syrinx hopped to his feet and whined, demanding more food.

Hunt couldn’t help his exasperated laugh. “Fine, fine,” he said to the

chimera, reaching for his container of kibble.

Ithan’s eyes burned him like a brand. Hunt had seen that same take-no-

shit face during televised sunball games. “Connor was in love with her for those five years, you know.” The wolf headed over to the couch and plopped onto the cushions. “Five years, and by the end of it, he’d only managed to get her to agree to go on a date with him.”

Hunt kept his face unreadable as Syrinx devoured his second—

potentially third—breakfast. “So?”

Ithan turned on the morning news before propping his feet on the coffee

table and interlacing his hands behind his head. “You’re at month five, bro.

Good luck to you.”

The Fae Archives hummed with activity—loud enough that Bryce had grown accustomed to keeping in her earbuds all day, even with the door to her tiny office on Sublevel Alpha shut.

It wasn’t that it was loud, exactly—the archives had the usual hush of

any library. But so many people visited or studied or worked in the cavernous atrium and surrounding stacks that there was a constant, underlying roar. The scuff of footsteps, the waterfall fountain pouring from the atrium’s ceiling, the clack of keyboards blending with the crinkle of turning pages, the whispers of patrons and tourists mingling with the occasional giggle or snap of a camera.

It grated on her.

Gone were the solitary days in the gallery. The days of blasting her

music through the sound system.

Lehabah was gone, too.

No incessant chatter about the latest episode of Fangs and Bangs. No

whining about wanting to go outside. No dramatic monologues about Bryce’s cruelty.

Bryce stared at the dark computer screen on her glass desk. She reached

out a foot to stroke Syrinx’s coat, but her toes only met air. Right—she’d left the chimera home to watch over Ithan.

She wondered if Syrinx even remembered Lehabah.

Bryce had visited the Black Dock during the days after the attack,

searching for a tiny onyx boat among the mass of Sailings. None had appeared.

Lehabah had no remains anyway. The fire sprite had been snuffed out

like a candle the moment a hundred thousand gallons of water had come crashing down upon her.

Bryce had gone over it, again and again. Usually during her dance

classes with Madame Kyrah, amid her panting and sweating. She always arrived at the same conclusion: there was nothing she might have done to stop Lehabah’s death.

Bryce understood it, could rationally talk about it, and yet … The

thoughts still circled, as if dancing right along with her: You might have found a way. Revealed yourself as Starborn earlier. Told Lehabah to run while you faced Micah.

She’d talked about it with Hunt, too. And he’d pointed out that all of

those options would have resulted in Bryce’s own death, but … Bryce couldn’t get past the question: Why was Lele’s life any less valuable than Bryce’s? Her Starborn Princess status meant nothing. If it came down to it, Lele had been the better person, who had suffered for decades in bondage.

The fire sprite should be free. Alive, and free, and enjoying herself.

Bryce picked up the desktop phone, dialing. Jesiba answered on the

third ring. “Another question, Quinlan? That’s the third one this week.”

Bryce drummed her fingers on her glass desk. “I’ve got a nine-

thousand-year-old Rhodinian bust of Thurr here.” Basically a broody male who was supposed to pass for the nearly forgotten minor storm deity. All that remained of him in their culture was the behemoth of a planet named after him. And Thursdays, apparently. Bryce had already sent a photo of it to Hunt, with the comment, Bryce Quinlan Presents: The Original Alphahole Smolder. “A museum is interested, but they’re worried the former owner fudged some documents about its history. They want to make sure it’s legit before showing it to the public. Any idea who to call in Rhodinia to verify?”

“If I’m doing your job for you, then why am I not being paid for it?” Bryce ground her teeth. “Because we’re friends?” “Are we?” “You tell me.” Jesiba huffed a soft laugh. The enchantress who’d defected from her

witch-clan and sworn allegiance to the House of Flame and Shadow still lurked around Lunathion, but Bryce hadn’t seen her in months. Not since the day Jesiba had found Bryce poking around the watery ruins of the gallery library and told her not to come back.

Not in a mean way. Just in a This gallery is now permanently closed,

and those books you’re looking for are hidden away where no one will ever find them sort of manner.

Jesiba said, “I suppose I should consider it an honor, to be called a

friend by the Starborn Princess daughter of the Autumn King.” A slight pause, and Bryce knew what was coming next. “And the future Queen of Avallen.”

Bryce swiftly opened a news website as she hissed, “Who told you?” “Some of the people I’ve turned into animals have remained in my

employ, you know. They tell me what they overhear on the streets.

Especially the sewer rats who hope to regain their true forms one day.”

Bryce truly wasn’t sure if Jesiba was serious. She sighed again. “I don’t

suppose you have any insights as to why the Autumn King suddenly decided to ruin my life.”

Jesiba tsked. “Males will always try to control the females who scare

them. Marriage and breeding are their go-to methods.”

“Satisfying as it is to think of my father being afraid of me, that can’t be

it.”

“Why not? It’s been months. You’ve done nothing with your new

power, your titles. Or the Horn in your back. He grew tired of waiting. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did this just to learn how you’d react.”

“Maybe.” Bryce doodled on a piece of scrap paper beside her computer.

A little heart that said BQ + HA.

“What are you going to do about it?” Jesiba asked, as if she couldn’t

help it.

“Pretend it’s not happening until I can’t any longer?”

Jesiba chuckled again. “I worried, you know, when I learned you were

Starborn. I’ve watched many succumb to the allure of being the Chosen One. Perhaps you and your brother have more in common than I realized.”

“I think that’s a compliment?” “It is. Ruhn Danaan is one of the few who’s ever been strong enough to

shun what he is.” Bryce grunted. “You don’t plan on doing anything with it, then,” Jesiba asked, more quietly than Bryce had ever heard. “Your talent.

Or the Horn.”

“Definitely not the Horn. And it seems most of the Starborn power’s

value lies in what I can breed into the Fae bloodline.” Bryce straightened, twirling her pencil between her fingers. “And what good does blinding people do? I mean, it does have its uses, but surely there are deadlier weapons to wield?” Like Hunt’s lightning.

“You killed an Archangel without access to that power. I imagine that

you can now do a great many things, Quinlan.”

Bryce stiffened at the words, spoken so casually over an open line. She

had no idea what Jesiba had done with the Godslayer Rifle. Honestly, she never wanted to see it again.

Bryce lowered her voice, even though she knew no one was near her

little subterranean office. “I was given an order by the Asteri to lie low.

Forever.”

“How terribly boring of you to obey them.” Bryce opened her mouth, but the intercom on her desk buzzed. “Miss

Quinlan, you’re needed in the northern wing. Doctor Patrus wants your opinion on that sculpture from Delsus?”

Bryce pushed the button. “Be there in five.” She said to Jesiba, “I’m

going to send you some photos of this piece. I’d appreciate it if you’d deign to give me your opinion. And let me know if you have any contacts in Rhodinia who can help verify its authenticity.”

“I’m busy.” “So am I.” “Perhaps I’ll turn you into a toad.” “At least toads don’t wear stupid heels to work,” Bryce said, sliding her

feet back into the white stilettos she’d chucked beneath her desk.

Jesiba let out another soft, wicked laugh. “A word of advice, Quinlan:

think through the advantages of a marriage to Cormac Donnall before you

decide to be a cliché and refuse.”

Bryce stood, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. “Who

says I’m not?”

There was a lengthy pause before the sorceress said, “Good girl,” and

hung up.

9

“Anything?”

“Nothing at all—though you were right about the all-out decorations. I

nearly flew into about six different banners and wreaths on my way over this morning. But no reports or sightings of the Governor. Pretty normal day so far, to be honest.” Hunt’s low voice ran invisible hands along Bryce’s arms as she picked at the remnants of her lunch: a gyro grabbed from the archives’ staff cafeteria. He added, “Though not if you count me receiving a photo of some marble abs while I was showing crime scene pictures to Naomi.”

“Thought you’d enjoy that.” His laugh rumbled over the line. It shot through her like starlight. If he

was able to laugh today, good. She’d do whatever she could to keep a smile on Hunt’s face. He cleared his throat. “Thurr was pretty jacked, huh?”

“I’m petitioning for the exhibit to sell replicas in the gift shop. I think

the old ladies will go wild over it.” That earned her another beautiful laugh.

She bit her lip against her broad smile. “So Celestina’s now due to arrive at six, then?” Apparently, she’d been delayed by an hour.

“Yep.” Any hint of amusement faded.

Bryce stirred her computer to life. So far, the news sites reported

nothing beyond the headline that Lunathion—that all of Valbara—would have a new leader.

Bryce was willing to admit she’d spent a good hour skimming through

various images of the beautiful Archangel, pondering what sort of boss she’d be for Hunt. She found no hint about any romantic entanglements,

though Micah hadn’t often broadcast who he’d been fucking. It wasn’t that Bryce was worried, though she’d certainly felt a scrap of something when she’d seen precisely how stunning Celestina was, but … she needed a mental picture of who Hunt would be seeing day in and day out.

Bryce chucked her lunch into the trash beside her desk. “I could come

over after work. Be with you for the grand arrival.”

“It’s all right. I’ll fill you in afterward. It might take a while, though, so

feel free to eat without me.”

“But it’s pizza night.” Hunt laughed. “Glad you’ve got your priorities straight.” His wings

rustled in the background. “Any word about Prince Dickhead?”

“Nothing on the news, nothing from my mom.” “Small blessing.” “You owe me five gold marks.” “Add it to my tab, Quinlan.” “Don’t forget that my mom will probably be pissed at you for not telling

her.”

“I already have my bug-out bag packed and ready to flee to another

territory.”

She chuckled. “I think you’d have to go to Nena to escape her.” Hunt

laughed with her. “Don’t you think she—”

A glow flared at her chest. From the scar. “Bryce?” Hunt’s voice sharpened. “I, uh …” Bryce frowned down at the glowing star between her breasts,

visible in her low-cut dress. Not again. Its glowing had been rare until now, but after last night—

She looked up. “My boss is here. I’ll call you back,” she lied, and hung up before Hunt

could reply.

Bryce lifted her chin and said to Cormac Donnall, lurking in the

doorway, “If you’re looking for How Not to Be an Asshole, it’s shelved between Bye, Loser and Get the Fuck Out.”

The Crown Prince of Avallen had changed into a climate-appropriate gray T-shirt that did little to hide the considerable muscles of his arms. A tattoo

of strange symbols encircled his left biceps, the black ink gleaming in the bright lights.

He examined her closet-sized office with typical Fae arrogance—and

disapproval. “Your star glows in my presence because our union is predestined. In case you were wondering.”

Bryce barked out a laugh. “Says who?” “The Oracle.” “Which one?” There were twelve sphinxes around the world, each one

bitchier than the last. The meanest of them, apparently, dwelled in the Ocean Queen’s court Beneath.

“Does it matter?” Cormac turned, noting the shell-white dress Bryce

wore, the gold bracelets, and, yes, her ample cleavage. Or was he gazing at the star? She supposed it made no difference.

“I just want to know whose ass to kick.” Cormac’s mouth quirked upward. “I don’t know why I expected a half-

breed to be as docile as a pure-blooded female.”

“You’re not doing yourself any favors.” “I did not say I preferred a tamer female.” “Gross. What did the Oracle say to you, exactly?” “What did she say to you before she began clawing at her blinded

eyes?”

She didn’t want to know how he’d found out. Maybe her father had told

him—warned him about his bride. “Old news. I asked first.”

Cormac glowered. “The Oracle of Avallen said I was destined to unite

with a princess who possessed a star in her heart. That our mingling would bring great prosperity to our people.”

Bryce drummed her fingers on her glass desk. “A lot of room for

interpretation there.” Trust an Oracle to call sex mingling.

“I disagree.” Bryce sighed. “Tell me why you’re here, then leave, please. I have work

to do.”

Cormac studied the small torso of Thurr on her desk. “I wanted to see

where my betrothed works. To gain some insight into your … life.”

“You say that as if it’s a foreign thing for females to have jobs.” “In Avallen, it is.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “My people have let

the old traditions remain untouched. You will need to adjust.”

“Thanks, but no. I like my TV and phone. And I like being considered a

person, not livestock for breeding.”

“Like I said last night, you don’t have a choice.” His voice was flat, his

eyes hollow.

Bryce crossed her arms, realized it put her cleavage and the star on

better display, and lowered them to her sides once more. “Can I … pay you to drop this whole engagement thing?”

Cormac laughed. “I have more gold than I know what to do with.

Money holds little power over me.” He crossed his arms as well. “You have a chance to help your people and this world. Once you bear me a few heirs, you can take whatever lovers you wish. I will do the same. This marriage doesn’t need to burden either of us.”

“Except for the part where I have to sleep with you. And live in your

backwater land.”

His lips curled upward. “I think you’ll find the first part to be rather

enjoyable.”

“Spoken with true male arrogance.” He shrugged, clearly confident that she would enjoy him. “I haven’t had

any complaints yet. And if our union helps our people, and strengthens the royal bloodlines, then I’ll do it.”

“The Fae are no people of mine.” They never had been, and certainly

not now, after they’d locked out innocent citizens in this city and refused to come to anyone’s aid during the attack last spring. She pointed to the open door. “Bye.”

He simmered with disgust. “Your father let you run wild for too long.” “My father’s name is Randall Silago. The Autumn King is just a male

who gave me genetic material. He will never have a place in my life.

Neither will you.”

Cormac took a step back from the doorway, shadows swirling. His

golden hair glowed like molten metal. “You’re immortal now, as well as Starborn. Time to act like it.”

Bryce slammed the door in his face.

Hunt considered the beautiful Archangel seated at Micah’s old desk.

Glowing skin as dark as onyx brought out the light brown of her eyes, and

her delicate mouth seemed permanently set in a patient smile. It was that smile—that gentle, kind smile—that threw him. “Take a seat, please,” Celestina said to him, Naomi, and Isaiah.

Hunt nearly choked at the word. Please. Micah would never have said

anything of the sort. Isaiah appeared equally baffled as they settled into the three chairs before the simple oak desk. Naomi kept her face wholly blank, her black wings rustling.

Behind the Governor’s gleaming white wings, the wall of windows

revealed an unusual number of angels soaring by. All hoping to catch a glimpse of the female who had entered the Comitium in a grand procession thirty minutes ago.

The lobby ceremony had been the start of Hunt’s utter confusion.

Rather than strutting magnanimously past the gathered crowd, the voluptuous, lush-bodied Archangel had taken her time, pausing to greet the malakim who stepped forward, asking for their names, saying things like I’m so very happy to meet you and I look forward to working with you.

Cthona spare him, but Hunt honestly thought she might be serious.

He didn’t let his guard down, though. Not when she’d reached him,

Naomi, and Isaiah, standing before the elevator doors to escort her to her new residence and office; not when she’d taken his hand with genuine warmth; and certainly not now that they sat here for this private meeting.

Celestina surveyed them with unnerving clarity. “You three are all that

remains of Micah’s triarii.”

None of them replied. Hunt didn’t dare mention Vik—or beg the

Archangel to pull her out of Melinoë’s inky depths. To spare her from a living Hel. It had been months. Odds were that Vik had gone insane. Was likely begging for death with each moment in that box.

The Governor angled her head, her tightly curling black hair shifting

with the movement. She wore pale pink-and-lilac robes, gauzy and ethereal, and the silver jewelry along her wrists and neck glowed as if lit by the moon. Where Micah had radiated dominance and might, she shimmered with feminine strength and beauty. She barely came up to Hunt’s chest, yet … she had a presence that had Hunt eyeing her carefully.

“Not ones for talking, are you?” Her voice held a musical quality, as if

it had been crafted from silver bells. “I suppose my predecessor had rules quite different from mine.” She drummed her fingers on the desk, nails

tinted a soft pink. “Allow me to make this clear: I do not wish for subservience. I want my triarii to be my partners. I want you to work alongside me to protect this city and territory, and help it meet its great potential.”

A pretty little speech. Hunt said nothing. Did she know what he’d done

to Sandriel? What Bryce had done to Micah? What Micah had done in his quest to supposedly protect this territory?

Celestina wrapped a curl around a finger, her immaculate wings

shifting. “I see that I shall have to do a great deal of work to earn your trust.”

Hunt kept his face bland, even as he wished that she’d be equally as

forthright as Micah. He’d always hated his owners who’d disguised their dead souls in pretty speeches. This could easily be part of a game: to get them to trust her, come limping into her soft arms, and then spring the trap.

Make them suffer.

Naomi’s sharp chin lifted. “We don’t wish to offend you, Your Grace

—”

“Call me Celestina,” the Archangel interrupted. “I abhor formalities.”

Micah had said the same thing once. Hunt had been a fool to buy it then.

Isaiah’s wings shifted—like his friend was thinking the same.

His friend, who still bore the halo tattoo across his brow. Isaiah was the

better male, the better leader—and still a slave. Rumors had swirled in the months before Micah’s demise that the Archangel would free him soon.

That possibility was now as dead as Micah himself.

Naomi nodded, and Hunt’s heart tightened at the tentative hope in his

friend’s jet-black eyes. “We don’t wish to offend you … Celestina. We and the 33rd are here to serve you.”

Hunt suppressed his bristle. Serve. “The only way you could offend me, Naomi Boreas, would be to

withhold your feelings and thoughts. If something troubles you, I want to know about it. Even if the matter is due to my own behavior.” She smiled again. “We’re partners. I’ve found that such a partnership worked wonders on my legions in Nena. As opposed to the … systems my fellow Archangels prefer.”

Torture and punishment and death. Hunt blocked out the sear of white-

hot iron rods pounding his back, roasting his skin, splitting it down to the

bone as Sandriel watched from her divan, popping grapes into her mouth—

Isaiah said, “We’re honored to work with you, then.” Hunt pushed aside the bloody, screaming horrors of the past as another

lovely smile bloomed on the Governor. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you, Isaiah Tiberian. I’d like you to stay on as leader of the 33rd, if that is what you wish.”

Isaiah bowed his head in thanks, a tentative, answering smile gracing

his face. Hunt tried not to gape. Was he the only asshole who didn’t believe any of this?

Celestina turned her gaze upon him. “You have not yet spoken, Hunt

Athalar. Or do you wish to go by Orion?”

“Hunt is fine.” Only his mother had been allowed to call him Orion.

He’d keep it that way.

She surveyed him again, elegant as a swan. “I understand that you and

Micah did not necessarily see eye to eye.” Hunt reined in his urge to growl in agreement. Celestina seemed to read his inclination. “On another day, I’d like to learn about your relationship with Micah and what went wrong. So we might avoid such a situation ourselves.”

“What went wrong is that he tried to kill my—Bryce Quinlan.” Hunt

couldn’t stop the words, or his stumble.

Naomi’s brows nearly touched her hairline at his outburst, but Celestina

sighed. “I heard about that. I’m sorry for any pain you and Miss Quinlan suffered as a result of Micah’s actions.”

The words hit him like stones. I’m sorry. He’d never, not in all the

centuries he’d lived, heard an Archangel utter those words.

Celestina went on, “From what I’ve gathered, you have chosen to live

with Miss Quinlan, rather than in the barracks tower.”

Hunt kept his body loose. Refused to yield to the tension rising in him.

“Yeah.”

“I am perfectly fine with that arrangement,” Celestina said, and Hunt

nearly toppled out of his chair. Isaiah looked inclined to do the same.

Especially as the Archangel said to Isaiah and Naomi, “If you should wish to dwell in your own residences, you are free to do so. The barracks are good for building bonds, but I believe the ones between you are quite unshakable. You are free to enjoy your own lives.” She glanced at Isaiah, to the halo still tattooed on his brow. “I am not one to keep slaves,” she said,

disapproval tightening her face. “And though the Asteri might brand you as such, Isaiah, you are a free male in my eyes. I will endeavor to continue Micah’s work in convincing them to free you.”

Isaiah’s throat worked, and Hunt studied the window—the shining city

beyond—to give him privacy. Across the room, Naomi followed his lead.

Celestina couldn’t be serious. This had to be an act. “I’d like to hit the ground running,” the Governor went on. “Each

morning, let’s gather here so you can update me on any news, as well as your plans for the day. Should I have tasks for you or the 33rd, I shall convey them then.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I am aware that you are skilled at hunting demons, and have been employed to do so in the past.

If any break into this city, gods forbid, I’d like you to head up the containment and extermination unit against them.”

Hunt jerked his chin in confirmation. Easy enough. Though this spring,

dealing with the kristallos had been anything but easy.

Celestina finished, “And should an issue arise before our meeting

tomorrow morning, my phone is always on.”

Naomi nodded again. “What time tomorrow?” “Let’s say nine,” Celestina said. “No need to drag ourselves out of bed

simply to look busy.” Hunt blinked at her. “And I’d like the others to get some rest after their journey.”

“Others?” Isaiah asked.

The Archangel frowned slightly. “The rest of the triarii. They were

delayed by a few hours due to some bad weather up north.”

All three of them stilled. “What do you mean?” Hunt asked quietly. “It was in the formal letter you received,” she said to Isaiah, who shook

his head.

Celestina’s frown deepened. “The Asteri’s Communications Minister is

not usually one to make mistakes. I apologize on their behalf. The Asteri found themselves with a predicament after losing two Archangels, you see.

You are all that remains of Micah’s triarii, but Sandriel had a full stable in that regard. I had no triarii of my own in Nena, as the legion there technically answers to the Asteri, but Ephraim wanted to bring his own triarii with him. So rather than have his group get too large, it was split— since ours is so depleted.”

Roaring erupted in Hunt’s head. Sandriel’s triarii. The actual scum of

the universe.

They were coming here. To be part of this group. In this city.

A knock sounded on the door, and Hunt twisted as Celestina said,

“Come in.”

Lightning crackled at Hunt’s fingertips. The door opened, and in

swaggered Pollux Antonius and Baxian Argos.

The Hammer and the Helhound.

10

Absolute quiet settled over the Governor’s office as Hunt and his friends took in the two newcomers.

One was dark-haired and brown-skinned, tall and finely muscled—the

Helhound. His jet-black wings shimmered faintly, like a crow’s feathers.

But it was the wicked scar snaking down his neck, forking across the column of his throat, that snared the eye.

Hunt knew that scar—he’d given it to the Helhound thirty years ago.

Some powers, it seemed, even immortality couldn’t guard against.

Baxian’s obsidian eyes simmered as they met Hunt’s stare.

But Pollux’s cobalt eyes lit with feral delight as he sized up Naomi,

then Isaiah, and finally Hunt. Hunt allowed his lightning to flare as he stared down the golden-haired, golden-skinned leader of Sandriel’s triarii.

The most brutal, sadistic asshole to have ever walked Midgard’s soil.

Motherfucker Number One.

Pollux smirked, slow and satisfied. Celestina was saying something, but

Hunt couldn’t hear it.

Couldn’t hear anything except Pollux drawling, “Hello, friends,” before

Hunt leapt from his chair and tackled him to the floor.

Ithan Holstrom dabbed a damp washcloth at the last of the cuts healing on his face, wincing. Bryce’s bathroom was exactly as he’d expected it to be: full of at least three kinds of shampoos and conditioners, an array of hair treatments, brushes, curling rods of two different sizes, a blow-dryer left

plugged into the wall, half-burned candles, and makeup scattered up and down the marble counter like some glittery bomb had gone off.

It was almost exactly the same as her bathroom at the old apartment.

Just being here made his chest tighten. Just smelling this place, smelling her made his chest tighten.

He’d had little to distract himself today, sitting alone with her chimera

—Syrinx, Athalar had called him—on the couch, nearly dying of boredom watching daytime TV. He didn’t feel like trawling the news for hours, awaiting a glimpse of the new Archangel. None of the sports channels had interesting coverage on, and he had no desire to listen to those assholes talk anyway.

Ithan angled his face before the mirror to better see the cut lacing across

his brow. This particular beauty had been from Sabine, a swipe of a claw-armed fist.

He had a feeling the blow had been intended for his eyes. Sure, they’d

have healed after a few days or weeks, sooner if he’d gone to a medwitch, but being blinded wasn’t at the top of his to-do list.

Not that he really had anything else on his to-do list today.

His phone buzzed on the counter, and Ithan peered down to see three

different news alerts and photo essays about the arrival of Celestina. Had shit not gone down with Sabine, he’d probably be gearing up to meet the beautiful malakh as part of the wolves’ formal welcome. And fealty-swearing bullshit.

But now he was a free agent. A wolf without a pack.

It wasn’t common, but it did happen. Lone wolves existed, though most

roamed the wilds and were left to their own devices. He’d just never thought he’d be one.

Ithan set down his phone, hanging up the washcloth on the already-

crowded towel bar.

He willed the shift, inhaling sharply and bidding his bones to melt, his

skin to ripple.

It occurred to him a moment after he took his wolf form that the

bathroom wasn’t quite large enough.

Indeed, a swish of his tail knocked over various bottles, sending them

scattering across the marble floor. His claws clicked on the tiles, but he lifted his muzzle toward the mirror and met his reflection once more.

The horse-sized wolf that stared back was hollow-eyed, though his fur

covered most of his bruising and the cuts, save for the slash along his brow.

He inhaled—and the breath stuck in his ribs. In some empty, strange

pocket.

Wolf with no pack. Amelie and Sabine had not merely bloodied him,

they’d exorcised him from their lives, from the Den. He backed into the towel rack, tossing his head this way and that.

Worse than an Omega. Friendless, kinless, unwanted— Ithan shuddered back into his humanoid form. Panting, he braced his

hands on the bathroom counter and waited until the nausea subsided. His phone buzzed again. Every muscle in his body tensed.

Perry Ravenscroft.

He might have ignored it had he not read the first part of the message as

it appeared.

Please tell me you’re alive.

Ithan sighed. Amelie’s younger sister—the Omega of the Black Rose

Pack—was technically the reason he’d made it here. Had said nothing about her sister and Sabine ripping him to shreds, but she’d carried him into the apartment. She was the only one of his former pack to bother to check in.

She added, Just write back y/n.

Ithan stared at the message for a long moment.

Wolves were social creatures. A wolf without a pack … it was a soul-

wound. One that would cripple most wolves. But he’d been struck a soul-wound two years ago and had survived.

Even though he knew he couldn’t endure taking his wolf form again

anytime soon.

Ithan took in the bathroom, the various crap Bryce had left lying

around. She’d been a wolf without a pack for those two years, too. Yeah, she had Fury and Juniper, but it wasn’t the same as Danika and Connor and the Pack of Devils. Nothing would ever be the same as that.

Ithan typed back Yes, then slid his phone into his pocket. Bryce would

be home soon. And she’d mentioned something about pizza.

Ithan padded out into the airy apartment, Syrinx lifting his head from

the couch to inspect him. The chimera lay back down with a puff of approval, lion’s tail waggling.

The silence of the apartment pressed on Ithan. He’d never lived on his

own. He’d always had the constant chaos and closeness of the Den, the insanity of his college dorm, or the hotels he’d stayed at with the CCU sunball team. This place might as well have been another planet.

He rubbed at his chest, as if it’d erase the tightness.

He’d known precisely why he’d disobeyed Sabine’s order this spring

when Bryce had screamed for help. The sound of her pleading had been unbearable. And when she’d mentioned children at risk, something had exploded in his brain. He had no regrets about what he’d done.

But could he endure its consequences? Not the beating—he could

weather that shit any day. But being here, alone, adrift … He hadn’t felt like this since Connor and the others had died. Since he’d walked away from his sunball team and stopped answering their calls.

He had no idea what the Hel he’d do now. Perhaps the answer wasn’t

some big, life-altering thing. Maybe it could be as simple as putting one foot in front of the other.

That’s how you wound up following someone like Amelie, a voice that

sounded an awful lot like Connor’s growled. Make better choices this time, pup. Assess. Decide what you want.

But for now … one foot in front of the other. He could do that. If just

for today.

Ithan walked to the door and pulled the leash off the hook on the wall

beside it. “Want a walk?” he asked Syrinx. The beast rolled onto his side, as if saying, Belly rub, please.

Ithan slung the leash back onto its hook. “You got it, bud.”

“Approachable Asshole, huh?”

Bryce leaned against the bars of the immaculate cell beneath the

Comitium, frowning at where Hunt sat on a steel-framed cot, head hanging.

He straightened at her words, gray wings tucking in. His face— Bryce stiffened. “What the fuck, Hunt?”

Black eye, swollen lip, cuts along his temple, his hairline … “I’m fine,”

he grumbled, even though he looked as bad as Ithan. “Who called you?”

“Your new boss—she filled me in. She sounds nice, by the way.” Bryce

pressed her face through the bars. “Definitely nice, since she hasn’t kicked

your ass to the curb yet.”

“She did put me in this cell.” “Isaiah put you in the cell.” “Whatever.” “Don’t whatever me.” Gods, she sounded like her mother.

His voice sharpened. “I’ll see you at home. You shouldn’t be here.” “And you shouldn’t have gotten into a stupid fight, but here you are.” Lightning forked down his wings. “Go home.” Was he—was he really pissed she was here? She snorted. “Were you

intentionally trying to sabotage yourself today?”

Hunt shot to his feet, then winced at whatever pain it summoned in his

battered body. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

A deep male voice answered, “Because you’re a stupid bastard.” Bryce grimaced. She’d forgotten about Pollux.

Hunt snarled, “I don’t want to hear your fucking voice.” “Get used to it,” said another male voice from the elevator bay at the

end of the white hall.

Bryce found a tall, lean angel approaching with a natural elegance. Not

beautiful, not in the way that Hunt and Pollux and Isaiah were, but … striking. Intense and focused.

Baxian Argos, the Helhound. An angel with the rare ability to shift into

the form that had given him his nickname.

Hunt had told her about him, too. Baxian hadn’t ever tortured Hunt or

others, as far as she knew—but he’d done plenty of awful things in Sandriel’s name. He’d been her chief spy-master and tracker.

Baxian bared his teeth in a fierce smile. Hunt bristled.

Like Hel would these males make her back down.

Pollux crooned from his cell, his pretty-boy face as battered as Hunt’s,

“Why don’t you come a little closer, Bryce Quinlan?”

Hunt growled. “Don’t talk to her.” Bryce snapped, “Spare me the protective alphahole act.” Before Hunt

could reply, she’d stalked over to Pollux’s cell.

Pollux made a show of looking her over from head to stilettos. “I

thought your kind usually worked the night shift.”

Bryce snickered. “Any other outdated jabs to throw my way?” At

Pollux’s silence, Bryce said, “Sex work is a respectable profession in

Crescent City. It’s not my fault Pangera hasn’t caught up with modern times.”

Pollux brimmed with malice. “Micah should have killed you and been

done with it.”

She let her eyes glow—let him see that she knew all he’d done to Hunt,

how much she detested him. “That’s the best you can come up with? I thought the Hammer was supposed to be some kind of sadistic badass.”

“And I thought half-breed whores were supposed to keep their mouths

closed. Fortunately, I know the perfect thing to shove in that trap of yours to shut you up.”

Bryce winked saucily. “Careful. I use teeth.” Hunt coughed, and Bryce

leaned forward—close enough that if Pollux extended an arm, his hand could wrap around her throat. Pollux’s eyes flared, noting that fact. Bryce said sweetly, “I don’t know who you pissed off to be sent to this city, but I’m going to make your life a living Hel if you touch him again.”

Pollux lunged, fingers aiming for her neck.

She let her power surge, bright enough that Pollux reared back, an arm

flung over his eyes. Bryce’s lips quirked to the side. “I thought so.”

She backed away a few steps, pivoting toward Hunt once more. He

cocked an eyebrow, eyes shining beneath the bruises. “Fancy, Quinlan.”

“I aim to impress.” A low laugh whispered behind her, and Bryce found the Helhound now

leaning against the wall opposite the cells, beside a large TV.

“I take it I’ll be seeing more of you than I’d like,” Bryce said.

Baxian sketched a bow. He wore lightweight black armor made of

overlapping plates. It reminded her of a reptilian version of Hunt’s suit. “Maybe you’ll give me a tour.”

“Keep dreaming,” Hunt muttered.

The Helhound’s dark eyes gleamed. He turned on his heel and said

before entering the elevator, “Glad someone finally put a bullet through Micah’s head.”

Bryce stared after him in stunned silence. Had he come down here for

any reason other than to say that? Hunt whooshed out a breath. Pollux remained pointedly silent in his cell.

Bryce gripped the bars of Hunt’s cell. “No more fights.”

“If I say yes, can we go home now?” He gave her a mournful pout

almost identical to Syrinx’s begging.

Bryce suppressed her smile. “Not my call.” A fair female voice floated from an intercom in the ceiling. “I’ve seen

enough. He’s free to go, Miss Quinlan.” The bars hissed, the door unlocking with a clank.

Bryce said to the ceiling, “Thank you.” Pollux growled from his cell, “And what of me? I didn’t start this

fight.” The shithead had balls. Bryce would give him that.

Celestina answered coolly, “You also didn’t do anything to defuse it.” “Forgive me for fighting back while being pummeled by a brute.” From the corner of her eye, Bryce could have sworn Hunt was grinning

wickedly.

The Governor said, voice taking on a no-bullshit sharpness, “We shall

discuss this later.” Pollux was wise enough not to snap a reply. The Archangel went on, “Keep Athalar in line, Miss Quinlan.”

Bryce waved at the camera mounted beside the TV. When Celestina

didn’t answer, Bryce stepped back to allow Hunt out of the cell. He limped toward her, badly enough that she looped her arm around his waist as they aimed for the elevator.

Pollux sneered from his cell, “You two mongrels deserve each other.” Bryce blew him a kiss.

11

Tharion needed a new job.

Honestly, even years into the position, he had no idea how he’d wound

up in charge of the River Queen’s intelligence. His schoolmates probably laughed every time his name came up: a thoroughly average, if not lazy, student, he’d gotten his passing grades mostly through charming his teachers. He had little interest in history or politics or foreign languages, and his favorite subject in school had been lunch.

Maybe that had primed him. People were far more inclined to talk over

food. Though anytime he’d tortured an enemy, he’d puked his guts up afterward. Fortunately, he’d learned that a cold beer, some mirthroot, and a few rounds of poker usually got him what he needed.

And this: research.

Normally, he’d tap one of his analysts to pore over his current project,

but the River Queen wanted this kept secret. As he sat before the computer in his office, all it took was a few keystrokes to access what he wanted: Sofie Renast’s email account.

Declan Emmet had set up the system for him: capable of hacking into

any non-imperial email within moments. Emmet had charged him an arm and a fin for it, but it had proved more than useful. The first time Tharion had used it had been to help track down his sister’s murderer.

The sick fuck had emailed himself photos of his victims. Even what

Tharion had done to him afterward hadn’t erased the image seared into his brain of his sister’s brutalized body.

Tharion swallowed, looking toward the wall of glass that opened into

clear cobalt waters. An otter shot past, yellow vest blazingly bright in the river water, a sealed tube clenched between his little fangs.

A creature of both worlds. Some of the messenger otters dwelled here,

in the Blue Court deep beneath the Istros, a small metropolis both exposed and sealed off from the water around them. Other otters lived Above, in the bustle and chaos of Crescent City proper.

Tharion couldn’t ever move Above, he reminded himself. His duties

required him here, at the River Queen’s beck and call. Tharion peered at his bare feet, digging them into the cream shag carpet beneath his desk. He’d been in human form for nearly a day now. He’d have to enter the water soon or risk losing his fins.

His parents found it odd that he’d chosen to live in one of the dry glass-

and-metal buildings anchored into a sprawling platform at the bottom of the river, and not near them in the network of underwater caves that doubled as apartments for the mer. But Tharion liked TV. Liked eating food that wasn’t soggy at best, cold and wet at worst. He liked sleeping in a warm bed, sprawled over the covers and pillows, and not tucked into a seaweed hammock swinging in the currents. And since living on land wasn’t an option, this underwater building had become his best bet.

The computer pinged, and Tharion pivoted back to the screen. His

office was in one of the glass-domed bubbles that made up the Blue Court Investigative Unit’s headquarters—the River Queen had only allowed their construction because computers had to stay dry.

Tharion himself had been forced to explain that simple fact.

His queen was almighty, beautiful, and wise—and, like so many of the

older Vanir, had no idea how modern technology worked. Her daughter, at least, had adapted better. Tharion had been instructed to show her how to use a computer. Which was how he’d wound up here.

Well, not here in this office. But in this place. In his current life.

Tharion skimmed through Sofie Renast’s email archive. Evidence of a

normal existence: emails with friends about sports or TV or an upcoming party; emails from parents asking that she pick up groceries on her way home from school; emails from her little brother. Emile.

Those were the ones that he combed through the most carefully. Maybe

he’d get lucky and there’d be some hint in here about where Sofie was

headed.

On and on, Tharion read, keeping an eye on the clock. He had to get in

the water soon, but … He kept reading. Hunting for any clue or hint of where Sofie and her brother might have gone. He came up empty.

Tharion finished Sofie’s inbox, checked the junk folder, and then finally

the trash. It was mostly empty. He clicked open her sent folder, and groaned at the tally. But he began reading again. Click after click after click.

His phone chimed with an alert: thirty minutes until he needed to get

into the water. He could reach the air lock in five minutes, if he walked fast.

He could get through another few emails before then. Click, click, click.

Tharion’s phone chimed again. Ten minutes.

But he’d halted on an email dated three years ago. It was so simple, so

nonsensical that it stood out.

Subject: Re: Dusk’s Truth The subject line was weird. But the body of her email was even weirder.

Working on gaining access. Will take time.

That was it.

Tharion scanned downward, toward the original message that Sofie had

replied to. It had been sent two weeks before her reply.

From: BansheeFan56 Subject: Dusk’s Truth Have you gotten inside yet? I want to know the full story.

Tharion scratched his head, opened another window, and searched for

Dusk’s Truth.

Nothing. No record of a movie or book or TV show. He did a search on

the email system for the sender’s name: BansheeFan56.

Another half-deleted chain. This one originating from BansheeFan56.

Subject: Project Thurr Could be useful to you. Read it.

Sofie had replied: Just did. I think it’s a long shot. And the Six will kill

me for it.

He had a good feeling he knew who “the Six” referred to: the Asteri.

But when Tharion searched online for Project Thurr, he found nothing.

Only news reports on archaeological digs or art gallery exhibits featuring the ancient demigod. Interesting.

There was one other email—in the drafts folder.

BansheeFan56 had written: When you find him, lie low in the place I

told you about—where the weary souls find relief from their suffering in Lunathion. It’s secure.

A rendezvous spot? Tharion scanned what Sofie had started to reply, but

never sent.

Thank you. I’ll try to pass along the info to my She’d never finished it. There were any number of ways that sentence

could have ended. But Sofie must have needed a place where no one would think to look for her and her brother. If Sofie Renast had indeed survived the Hind, she might well have come here, to this very city, with the promise of a safe place to hide.

But this stuff about Project Thurr and Dusk’s Truth … He tucked those

tidbits away for later.

Tharion opened a search field within Declan’s program and typed in the

sender’s address. He started as the result came in.

Danika Fendyr.

Tharion burst from his office, sprinting through the glass corridors that revealed all manner of river life: mer and otters and fish, diving birds and water sprites and the occasional winding sea serpent. He only had three minutes before he had to be in the water.

Thankfully, the hatch into the pressurization chamber was open when

he arrived, and Tharion leapt in, slamming the round door behind him before punching the button beside it.

He’d barely sealed the door when water flooded his feet, rushing into

the chamber with a sigh. Tharion sighed with it, slumping into the rising water and shucking off his pants, his body tingling as fins replaced skin and bone, his legs fusing, rippling with tiger-striped scales.

He pulled off his shirt, shuddering into the scales that rippled along his

arms and halfway up his torso. Talons curled off his fingers as Tharion thrust them into his hair, slicking back the red strands.

Fucking inconvenient.

Tharion glanced at the digital clock above the air lock door. He was free

to return to human form now, but he liked to wait a good five minutes. Just to make sure the transformation had been marked by the strange magic that

guided the mer. It didn’t matter that he could summon water from thin air— the shift only counted if he submerged completely in the currents of wild magic.

Danika Fendyr had known Sofie Renast. Had swapped emails during a

six-month window leading up to Danika’s death, all relating to something about Dusk’s Truth and this Project Thurr, except that one detailing a secure spot.

But had Danika Fendyr known Emile as well? Had Emile been the

person Sofie had meant to pass along the safe location info to? It was a stretch, but from what the River Queen had told him, everything Sofie had done before her death had been for her brother. Why wouldn’t he be the person she was eager to hide, should she ever get him free from Kavalla?

The trouble now was finding them somewhere in this city. Where the weary souls find relief from their suffering, apparently. Whatever that meant.

Tharion waited until five minutes had passed, then reached up with a

muscled arm to hit the release button beside the air lock door. Water drained out, clearing the chamber, and Tharion remained seated, staring at his fins, waving idly in the air.

He willed the change, and light shimmered along his legs, pain lancing

down them as his fin split in two, revealing his naked body.

His pants were soaked, but Tharion didn’t particularly care as he shoved

his legs back into them. At least he hadn’t been wearing shoes. He’d lost countless pairs thanks to close calls like this over the years.

With a groan, he eased to his feet and opened the door once more. He

donned one of the navy windbreakers hanging from the wall for warmth, BCIU written in yellow print on the back. Blue Court Investigative Unit. It was technically part of Lunathion’s Auxiliary, but the River Queen liked to think of her realm as a separate entity.

He checked his phone as he stalked down the hall toward his office,

skimming the field reports that had come in. He went still at one of them.

Maybe Ogenas was looking out for him.

A kingfisher shifter had called in a report three hours ago—out in the

Nelthian Marshes. A small, abandoned boat. Nothing unusual, but its registration had snagged his eye. It had made berth in Pangera. The rest of the report had Tharion hurrying to his office.

An adolescent-sized life vest with Bodegraven written on its back had

been found in the boat. No one remained on board, but a scent lingered.

Human, male, young.

What were the odds that a life jacket from the same ship Sofie Renast’s

brother had been on had appeared on a wholly different boat, near the very city the emails between her and Danika had indicated was safe to hide in?

Emile Renast had to have been on that boat. The question was: Did he

have reason to suspect that his sister had survived the Hind? Were they currently en route to be reunited? Tharion had a few guesses for where Danika’s cryptic instructions might imply—none of them good. He might have no idea what his queen wanted with either Sofie or Emile, enough that she’d wanted the former alive or dead, but he had little choice in following this lead.

He supposed he’d forfeited the right to choices long ago.

Tharion took a wave skimmer up the Istros, aiming for the marshland an hour north of the city. The river cut along the coast here, wending between the swaying, hissing reeds. Along one seemingly random curve, the small skiff had been driven up onto the grasses, and now tilted precariously to one side.

Birds swooped and soared overhead, and eyes monitored him

unblinkingly from the grasses as he slowed the wave skimmer to examine the boat.

He shuddered. The river beasts nested in these marshes. Even Tharion

had been careful about what watery paths he took through the grasses. The sobeks might know better than to fuck with the mer, but a female beast would go down snapping for her young.

A thirteen-year-old boy, however gifted, would be a rich dessert.

Tharion used his water magic to guide him right up to the boat, then

hopped aboard. Empty cans of food and bottles of water clanked against each other with the impact of his landing. A sweep of the sleeping area below revealed a human, male scent, along with blankets and more food.

Small, muddy footprints marked the deck near the steering wheel. A

child had indeed been on this boat. Had that child sailed from Pangera all

the way here alone? Pity and dread stirred in Tharion’s gut at all the abandoned trash.

He turned on the engine and discovered plenty of fuel—indicating that

the boat hadn’t run out of firstlight and been ditched here. So this must have been an intentional landing. Which suggested that Sofie must have passed that information about the meeting spot along to Emile after all. But if he’d discarded the boat here, in the heart of sobek territory … Tharion rubbed his jaw.

He made a slow circle of the reeds around the boat. Listening, scenting.

And—fuck. Human blood. He braced himself for the worst as he approached a red-splattered section of reeds.

His relief was short-lived. The smell was adult, but … that was an arm.

Ripped away from the body, which must have been dragged off. Trauma to the biceps in line with a sobek bite.

Fighting his roiling stomach, Tharion crept closer. Scented it again.

It was fresher than the boy’s scent on the boat by a day or so. And

maybe it was a coincidence that there was a human arm here, but Tharion knew the dark gray of the torn sleeve that remained on the arm. The patch of the golden sun bracketed by a gun and a blade still half-visible near the bite.

The Ophion insignia. And the additional red sinking sun above it …

Their elite Lightfall squadron, led by Pippa Spetsos.

Carefully, as silently as he could, Tharion moved through the reeds,

praying he didn’t stumble into any sobek nests. The human scents were more numerous here. Several males and a female, all adult. All coming from inland—not the water. Ogenas, had Pippa Spetsos herself led the unit here to get the boy? They must have tried to creep up on the boat from the reeds. And apparently one of them had paid the ultimate price.

Ophion had sent their best unit here, despite their numerous recent

losses. They needed Lightfall in Pangera—and yet they were expending resources on this hunt. So they likely weren’t seeking the boy out of the goodness of their hearts. Had Emile abandoned the boat here not because Sofie had told him to, but because he’d sensed someone on his tail? Had he fled to this city not only to find his sister at the arranged spot, but also to get free of the rebels?

Tharion retraced his steps back to the boat, scanning it again. He slung

himself belowdecks, pulling aside blankets and garbage, skimming, scanning—

There. A marked-up map of the Valbaran coast. With these marshes

circled. These marshes … and one other marking. Tharion winced. If Emile Renast had fled on foot from here to Crescent City …

He pulled out his phone and dialed one of his officers. Ordered them to

get to the marshes. To start at the boat and work their way by land toward the city. And bring guns—not just for the beasts in the reeds, but for the rebels who might be following the kid.

And if they found Emile … He ordered the officer to track him for a

while. See who he met up with. Who the boy might lead them to.

If the boy had even walked out of these marshes alive.

12

Hunt stretched out his legs, adjusting his wings so he didn’t crush them between his back and the wooden bench. Bryce sat beside him, pistachio ice cream melting down the sides of her cone, and Hunt tried not to stare as she licked away each dribbling green droplet.

Was this punishment for his fight with Pollux? To sit here and watch

this?

Hunt focused instead on the scooter she’d apparently ridden at

breakneck speed to the Comitium. She’d walked with him when they left, though, pushing it beside her all the way to the park. He cleared his throat and asked, “Something up with your bike?”

Bryce frowned. “It was making a weird noise earlier. Didn’t seem wise

to get back on it.” She arched a brow. “Want to be a gentleman and carry it home for me?”

“I’d rather carry you, but sure.” The scooter would be heavy, but

nothing he couldn’t deal with. He remembered his own ice cream—coffee —in time to lick away the melted bits. He tried not to note the way her eyes tracked each movement of his tongue. “What kind of noise was it making?”

“A kind of rasping sputter whenever I idled.” She twisted to where her

beloved bike leaned against a banner-adorned lamppost. “It’s gonna have to go into the shop, poor thing.”

Hunt chuckled. “I can bring it up to the roof and check it out.” “So romantic. When do the wedding invites go out for you two?” He laughed again. “I’m shocked Randall didn’t make you learn how to

fix your own bike.”

“Oh, he tried. But I was a legal adult by that point and didn’t have to

listen.” She glanced at him sidelong. “Seriously, though—you know how to fix a bike?”

Hunt’s amusement slipped a notch. “Yeah. I, ah … know how to fix a

lot of machines.”

“Does your lightning give you an affinity for knowing how they work,

or something?”

“Yeah.” Hunt trained his gaze upon the Istros. The relentless sun was

finally setting, casting the river in reds and golds and oranges. Far below the surface, little lights glowed, all that showed of the mighty, sprawling court beneath the water. He said quietly, “Sandriel took advantage of that— she often had me take apart Ophion’s mech-suits after battles, so I could learn how they worked and then sabotage them before discreetly sending the machines back to the front for the rebels to use unwittingly.” He couldn’t look at her, especially when she remained silent as he added, almost confessing, “I learned a lot about how machines work. How to make them not work. Especially at key moments. A lot of people likely died because of that. Because of me.”

He’d tried convincing himself that what he did was justified, that the

suits themselves were monstrous: fifteen feet high and crafted of titanium, they were essentially exoskeletal armor that the human standing within could pilot as easily as moving their own body. Armed with seven-foot-long swords—some of them charged with firstlight—and massive guns, they could go head-to-maw with a wolf shifter and walk away intact. They were the human army’s most valuable asset—and only way of withstanding a Vanir attack.

Sandriel ordering him to take apart and mess with the suits had nothing

to do with that, though. It had been about pure cruelty and sick amusement —stealing the suits, sabotaging them, and returning them with the humans none the wiser. It was about watching with glee as the pilots squared off against Vanir forces, only to find that their mech-suits failed them.

Bryce laid a hand on his knee. “I’m sorry she made you do that, Hunt.” “So am I,” Hunt said, exhaling deeply, as if it could somehow cleanse

his soul.

Bryce seemed to sense his need to shift the subject, because she

suddenly asked, “What the Hel are we going to do about Pollux and

Baxian?” She threw him a wry look, drawing him out of the past. “Aside from pummeling them into tenderized meat.”

Hunt snorted, silently thanking Urd for bringing Bryce into his life.

“We can only hope Celestina keeps them in line.”

“You don’t sound so certain.” “I spoke to her for five minutes before Pollux came in. It wasn’t enough

to make a judgment.”

“Isaiah and Naomi seem to like her.” “You talked to them?” “On the way in. They’re … concerned about you.” Hunt growled. “They should be concerned about those two psychopaths

living here.”

“Hunt.” The sun lit her eyes to a gold so brilliant it knocked the breath from

him. She said, “I know your history with Pollux. I understand why you reacted this way. But it can’t happen again.”

“I know.” He licked his ice cream again. “The Asteri sent him here for a

reason. Probably to rile me like this.”

“They told us to lie low. Why goad you out of doing so?” “Maybe they changed their minds and want a public reason to arrest

us.”

“We killed two Archangels. They don’t need any further charges to sign

our death sentences.”

“Maybe they do. Maybe they worry we could get away with it if it went

to trial. And a public trial would mean admitting our roles in Micah’s and Sandriel’s deaths.”

“I think the world could easily believe you killed an Archangel. But a

widdle nobody half-human like me? That’s the thing they don’t want leaking out.”

“I guess. But … I just have a hard time believing any of this. That

Pollux and Baxian being here isn’t a sign of shit about to go down. That Celestina might actually be a decent person. I’ve got more than two hundred years of history telling me to be wary. I can’t deprogram myself.” Hunt shut his eyes.

A moment later, soft fingers tangled in his hair, idly brushing the

strands. He nearly purred, but kept perfectly still as Bryce said, “We’ll keep

our guards up. But I think … I think we might need to start believing in our good luck.”

“Ithan Holstrom’s arrival is the exact opposite of that.” Bryce nudged him with a shoulder. “He’s not so bad.” He cracked open an eye. “You’ve come around quickly on him.” “I don’t have time to hold grudges.” “You’re immortal now. I’d say you do.” She opened her mouth, but a bland male voice echoed through the park:

The Gates will be closing in ten minutes. Anyone not in line will not be granted access.

She scowled. “I could have lived without them using the Gates to

broadcast announcements all day.”

“You’re the one to blame for it, you know,” he said, mouth kicking up

at one corner.

Bryce sighed, but didn’t argue.

It was true. Since she’d used the crystal Gates to contact Danika, it had

awoken public interest in them, and revived awareness that they could be used to speak throughout the city. They were now mostly used to make announcements, ranging from the opening and closing times at the tourist sites to the occasional recording of an imperial announcement from Rigelus himself. Hunt hated those the most. This is Rigelus, Bright Hand of the Asteri. We honor the fallen dead in beautiful Lunathion, and thank those who fought for their service.

And we watch all of them like hawks, Hunt always thought when he

heard the droning voice that disguised the ancient being within the teenage Fae body.

The Gate announcer fell quiet again, the gentle lapping of the Istros and

whispering palm trees overhead filling the air once more.

Bryce’s gaze drifted across the river, to the mists swirling on its

opposite shore. She smiled sadly. “Do you think Lehabah is over there?”

“I hope so.” He’d never stop being grateful for what the fire sprite had

done.

“I miss her,” she said quietly.

Hunt slid an arm around her, tucking her into his side. Savoring her

warmth and offering his own. “Me too.”

Bryce leaned her head against his shoulder. “I know Pollux is a

monster; and you have every reason in the world to want to kill him. But please don’t do anything to make the Governor punish you. I couldn’t …” Her voice caught, and Hunt’s chest strained with it. “Watching Micah cut off your wings … I can’t see that again, Hunt. Or any other horror she might invent for you.”

He ran a hand over her silken hair. “I shouldn’t have lost control like

that. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Not for this. Just … be cautious.” “I will.” She ate more of her ice cream, but didn’t move. So Hunt did the same,

careful not to drip into her hair.

When they’d eaten it all, when the sun was near-vanished and the first

stars had appeared, Bryce straightened. “We should go home. Ithan and Syrinx need dinner.”

“I’d suggest not telling Holstrom that you group him with your pet.” Bryce chuckled, pulling away, and it was all Hunt could do to not reach

for her.

He’d decided to Hel with it all when Bryce stiffened, her attention fixed

on something beyond his wings. Hunt whirled, hand going to the knife at his thigh.

He swore. This was not an opponent he could fight against. No one

could.

“Let’s go,” Hunt murmured, folding a wing around her as the black boat

neared the quay. A Reaper stood atop it. Clothed and veiled in billowing black that hid all indication of whether the Reaper was male or female, old or young. Such things did not matter to Reapers.

Hunt’s blood chilled to ice as the oarless, rudderless boat drifted right to

the quay, utterly at odds with the elegant banners and flowers adorning every part of this city. The boat halted as if invisible hands tied it to the concrete walkway.

The Reaper stepped out, moving so fluidly it was as if it walked on air.

Bryce trembled beside him. The city around them had gone quiet. Even the insects had ceased their humming. No wind stirred the palms lining the quay. The banners hanging from the lampposts had ceased their flapping.

The ornate flower wreaths seemed to wither and brown.

But a phantom breeze fluttered the Reaper’s robes and trailing veil as it

aimed for the small park beyond the quay and the streets past that. It did not look their way, did not halt.

Reapers did not need to halt for anything, not even death. The Vanir

might call themselves immortal, but they could die from trauma or sickness.

Even the Asteri were killable. The Reapers, however …

You could not kill what was already dead. The Reaper drifted by,

silence rippling in its wake, and vanished into the city.

Bryce braced her hands on her knees. “Ugh, ugh, ughhh.” “My sentiments exactly,” Hunt murmured. Reapers dwelled on every

eternal isle in the world: the Bone Quarter here, the Catacombs in the Eternal City, the Summerlands in Avallen … Each of the sacred, sleeping domains guarded by a fierce monarch. Hunt had never met the Under-King of Lunathion—and hoped he never would.

He had as little as possible to do with the Under-King’s Reapers, too.

Half-lifes, people called them. Humans and Vanir who had once been alive, who had faced death and offered their souls to the Under-King as his private guards and servants instead. The cost: to live forever, unaging and unkillable, but never again to be able to sleep, eat, fuck. Vanir did not mess with them.

“Let’s go,” Bryce said, shaking off her shiver. “I need more ice cream.” Hunt chuckled. “Fair enough.” He was about to turn them from the

river when the roar of a wave skimmer’s engine sounded. He turned toward it on training and instinct, and halted when he marked the red-haired male atop it. The muscled arm that waved toward them. Not a friendly wave, but a frantic one.

“Tharion?” Bryce asked, seeing the direction of Hunt’s focus as the mer

male gunned for them, leaving roiling waves in his wake.

It was the work of a moment to reach them, and Tharion cut the engine

and drifted for the quay, keeping well away from the black boat tied nearby.

“Where the fuck have you been this summer?” Hunt asked, crossing his

arms.

But Tharion said breathlessly to Bryce, “We need to talk.”

“How did you even find us?” Bryce asked as they rode the elevator in her apartment building minutes later.

“Spy-master, remember?” Tharion grinned. “I’ve got eyes everywhere.”

He followed Bryce and Hunt into the apartment.

Bryce’s attention immediately shot to Ithan—who was exactly where

she’d left him that morning: on the couch, Syrinx sprawled across his lap.

His face had healed even more, the raw scar nearly vanished.

Ithan straightened as Tharion entered. “Relax,” she said, and didn’t

spare the wolf another glance as Hunt and Tharion aimed for the couch.

Bryce let out a warning hiss at the mer’s still-wet clothes.

Hunt rolled his eyes and sat at the dining table instead. “This is why

people shouldn’t get white couches,” the angel grumbled, and Bryce scowled.

“Then you can clean off the river water and dirt,” she shot back. “That’s what insta-clean spells are for,” Hunt replied smoothly. Bryce

scowled.

“Domestic bliss, I see,” Tharion said.

Bryce snickered, but Ithan asked from the couch, “Who are you?” Tharion flashed him a smile. “None of your business.” But Ithan sniffed. “Mer. Oh—yeah, I know you. Captain Whatever.” “Ketos,” Tharion muttered.

Hunt tipped his head to Ithan. “You’ve landed a grave blow to Captain

Whatever’s ego, Holstrom.”

“The gravest blow comes from my dearest friends failing to extol my

many qualities when I’m challenged,” Tharion said, pouting.

“Dearest friends?” Hunt asked, raising a brow. “Prettiest friends,” Tharion said, blowing a kiss to Bryce.

Bryce laughed and twisted away, putting her phone on silent before

sending off a message to Ruhn. Get over here ASAP.

He replied instantly. What’s wrong?

NOW.

Whatever it was that Tharion wanted with such urgency, Ruhn should

know about it, too. She wanted him to know about it. Which was … weird.

Yet nice.

Bryce slid her phone into her back pocket as Tharion gestured toward

the neon-pink lace bra dangling off the folding door to the laundry

machines. “Hot,” the mer said.

“Don’t get her started,” Hunt muttered.

Bryce glared at him, but said to Tharion, “It’s been a while.” The mer

was as attractive as she remembered. Perhaps more so, now that he was slightly disheveled and muddy.

“We talking about your sex life, or the time since I’ve seen you?”

Tharion asked, glancing between her and Hunt. Hunt glowered, but Bryce smiled fiendishly. Tharion went on, heedless of Hunt’s ire, “It’s been a busy summer.” He jumped onto a stool at the kitchen counter and patted the one beside him. “Sit, Legs. Let’s have a chat.”

Bryce plopped next to him, hooking her feet on the bar below.

Tharion asked, suddenly serious, “Did Danika ever talk about someone

named Sofie?” Ithan grunted in surprise.

Bryce’s mouth scrunched to the side. “Sofie who?” Before she could ask more, Hunt demanded, “What the fuck is this

about?”

Tharion said smoothly, “Just updating some old files.” Bryce drummed her fingers on the marble counter. “On Danika?” Tharion shrugged. “Glamorous as my life might seem, Legs, there’s a

lot of grunt work behind the scenes.” He winked. “Though not the sort of grunting I’d like to do with you, of course.”

“Don’t try to distract me with flirting,” Bryce said. “Why are you

asking about Danika? And who the Hel is Sofie?”

Tharion sighed at the ceiling. “There’s a cold case I’m working on, and

Danika—”

“Don’t lie to her, Tharion,” Hunt growled. Lightning danced along his

wings.

A thrill shot through Bryce at it—not only the power, but knowing he

had her back. She said to Tharion, “I’m not telling you shit until you give me more information.” She jabbed a thumb toward Ithan. “And neither is he, so don’t even ask.”

Ithan only smiled slowly at the mer, as if daring him to.

Tharion sized them all up. To his credit, he didn’t back down. A muscle

ticked in his cheek, though. As if he waged some inner debate. Then the mer captain said, “I, ah … I was assigned to look into a human woman, Sofie Renast. She was a rebel who was captured by the Hind two weeks

ago. But Sofie was no ordinary human, and neither was her younger brother —Emile. Both he and Sofie pass as human, yet they possess full thunderbird powers.”

Bryce blew out a breath. Well, she hadn’t been expecting that.

Hunt said, “I thought thunderbirds had been hunted to extinction by the

Asteri.” Too dangerous and volatile to be allowed to live was the history they’d been spoon-fed at school. A grave threat to the empire. “They’re little more than myths now.”

All true. Bryce remembered a Starlight Fancy horse called Thunderbird:

a blue-and-white unicorn-pegasus who could wield all types of energy.

She’d never gotten her hands on one, though she’d yearned to.

But Tharion went on, “Well, somehow, somewhere, one survived. And

bred. Emile was captured three years ago and sent to the Kavalla death camp. His captors were unaware of what they’d grabbed, and he wisely kept his gifts hidden. Sofie went into Kavalla and freed him. But from what I was told, Sofie was caught by the Hind before she reached safety. Emile got away—only to run from Ophion as well. It seems like he came this way, but various parties are still very interested in the powers he possesses. And Sofie, too, if she survived.”

“No one survives the Hind,” Hunt said darkly. “Yeah, I know. But the chains attached to the lead blocks at the bottom

of the ocean were empty. Unlocked. Seems like Sofie made it. Or someone snatched her corpse.”

Bryce frowned. “And the River Queen wants both the kid and Sofie?

Why? And what does this have to do with Danika?”

“I don’t know what my queen’s ultimate goal is. All I know is that she’s

very keen on finding Sofie, alive or dead, and equally keen on attaining Emile. But despite what that suggests, she’s not affiliated with Ophion in any way.” Tharion rubbed at his jaw. “In the process of trying to figure out this clusterfuck, I found some emails between Sofie and Danika talking about a safe place in this city for Sofie to lie low should she ever need it.”

“That’s not possible,” Ithan said.

Hunt rose from the table and stalked to Bryce’s side. His power

shimmered up her body, electrifying her very blood at his nearness. “Is the River Queen insane? Are you insane? Searching for rebels and not turning them in is a one-way ticket to crucifixion.”

Tharion held his stare. “I don’t really have a choice here. Orders are

orders.” He nodded to them. “Clearly you guys know nothing about this. Do me a favor and don’t mention it to anyone, okay?” The mer stood and turned toward the door.

Bryce hopped off her stool and stepped into his path. “Oh, I don’t think

so.” She let a fraction of her starlight shine around her. “You don’t get to tell me that Danika was in contact with a known rebel and then waltz out of here.”

Tharion chuckled, cold frosting his eyes. “Yeah, I do, Legs.” He took a

blatantly challenging step toward her.

Bryce held her ground. Was surprised and delighted that Hunt let her

fight this battle without interfering. “Do you even care that this oh-so-powerful thunderbird is a kid? Who survived a fucking death camp? And is now scared and alone?”

Tharion blinked, and she could have strangled him. “I know this is a dick thing to say,” Ithan added, “but if the kid’s got

that power, why didn’t he use it to get out of Kavalla himself?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how to use it yet,” Tharion mused. “Maybe he

was too weak or tired. I don’t know. But I’ll see you guys later.” He made to step past Bryce.

She blocked him again. “Emile aside, Danika wasn’t a rebel, and she

didn’t know anyone named Sofie Renast.”

Ithan said, “I agree.” Tharion said firmly, “The email was linked to her. And the email

address was BansheeFan56—Danika was clearly a Banshees fan. Skim through any of her old social media profiles and there are ten thousand references to her love of that band.”

Solas, how many Banshees shirts and posters had Danika amassed over

the years? Bryce had lost count.

Bryce tapped her foot, her blood at a steady simmer. Hadn’t Philip

Briggs said something similar when she and Hunt had interrogated the former leader of the Keres rebel sect in his prison cell? That Danika was a rebel sympathizer? “What did the emails say?”

Tharion kept his mouth shut.

Bryce bristled. “What did the emails say?”

Tharion snapped, a rare show of temper apparently getting the better of

him, “Does Dusk’s Truth mean anything to you? What about Project Thurr?” At her blank look, and Ithan’s, the mer said, “I thought so.”

Bryce clenched her jaw hard enough to hurt. After this spring, she’d

realized she hadn’t known as much about Danika as she’d believed, but to add even more to that list … She tried not to let it sting.

Tharion took another challenging step toward the door. But Bryce said,

“You can’t drop all that information and expect me not to do anything. Not to go looking for this kid.”

Tharion arched a brow. “So softhearted. But stay out of it, Legs.” “No way,” Bryce countered.

Hunt cut in, “Bryce. We were given an order by the Asteri—by Rigelus

himself—to lie low.”

“Then obey them,” Tharion said.

Bryce glared at the mer, then at Hunt. But Hunt said, storms in his eyes,

“The Asteri will slaughter us, along with your entire family, if word reaches them that you’re involved with rebel activity in any way. Even if it’s just helping to find a lost kid.”

Bryce opened her mouth, but Hunt pushed, “We won’t get a trial,

Bryce. Only an execution.”

Tharion crossed his arms. “Exactly. So, again: stay out of it, and I’ll be

on my way.”

Before Bryce could snap her reply, the front door banged open, and

Ruhn filled the doorway. “What the— Oh. Hey, Tharion.”

“You invited him?” Tharion accused Bryce.

Bryce stayed silent, holding her ground. “What’s going on?” Ruhn asked, glancing to Hunt and Ithan. Ruhn

startled at the sight of the wolf. “And what’s he doing here?”

“Ithan’s a free agent right now, so he’s staying with us,” Bryce said, and

at Ruhn’s puzzled look, added, “I’ll fill you in later.”

Ruhn asked, “Why’s your heart racing?” Bryce peered at her chest, half expecting her scar to be glowing.

Mercifully, it lay dormant. “Well, apparently Tharion thinks Danika was involved with the rebels.”

Ruhn gaped. “Thanks, Bryce,” Tharion muttered.

Bryce threw him a saccharine smile and explained Tharion’s

investigation to Ruhn.

“Well?” Ruhn asked when she’d finished, his face drained of color.

“Was Danika a rebel?”

“No!” Bryce splayed her arms. “Solas, she was more interested in what

junk food we had in our apartment.”

“That’s not all she was interested in,” Ruhn corrected. “She stole the

Horn and hid it from you. Hid it on you. And all that shit with Briggs and the synth …”

“Okay, fine. But the rebel stuff … She never even talked about the

war.”

“She would have known it’d endanger you,” Tharion suggested.

Hunt said to Tharion, “And you’re cool with being press-ganged into

working on this shit?” His face remained paler than usual. Tharion just crossed his long, muscular arms. Hunt went on, voice lowering, “It won’t end well, Tharion. Trust me on that. You’re tangling in some dangerous shit.”

Bryce avoided looking at the branded-out tattoo on Hunt’s wrist.

Tharion’s throat bobbed. “I’m sorry to have even come here. I know

how you feel about this stuff, Athalar.”

“You really think there’s a chance Sofie is alive?” Ruhn asked. “Yes,” Tharion said. “If she survived the Hind,” Hunt said, “and the Hind hears about it,

she’ll come running.”

“The Hind might already be headed this way,” Tharion said thickly.

“Regardless of Sofie, Emile and his powers remain a prize. Or something to be wiped out once and for all.” He dragged his long fingers through his dark red hair. “I know I’m dropping a bomb on you guys.” He winced at his unfortunate word choice, no doubt remembering what had happened last spring. “But I want to find this kid before anyone else.”

“And do what with him?” Bryce asked. “Hand him over to your

queen?”

“He’d be safe Beneath, Legs. It’d take a damn long while even for the

Asteri to find him—and kill him.”

“So he’d be used by your queen like some kind of weaponized battery

instead? Like Hel am I going to let you do that.”

“Again, I don’t know what she wants with Emile. But she wouldn’t

harm him. And you’d be wise to keep out of her path.”

Ithan cut in before Bryce could start spitting venom, “You really think

the kid is coming here? That the Hind will follow?”

Hunt rubbed his jaw. “The 33rd hasn’t heard anything about the Hind

coming over. Or Ophion being in the area.”

“Neither has the Aux,” Ruhn confirmed. “Well, unless one of the marsh sobeks swam all the way across the

Haldren to take a bite out of an Ophion soldier, I can’t think of any other reason why I found dismembered body parts of one here,” Tharion said.

“I don’t even know where to begin with that,” Hunt said. “Just trust me,” Tharion said, “Ophion is on its way, if not already here.

So I need to know as much as possible, and as quickly as possible. Find Emile, and we potentially find Sofie.”

“And gain a nice child soldier, right?” Bryce said tightly.

Tharion turned pleading eyes on her. “Either the River Queen puts me

in charge of hunting for them, or she assigns someone else, possibly someone less … independently minded. I’d rather it be me who finds Emile.”

Ithan burst out, “Can we discuss that you guys are talking about rebels

in this city? About Danika potentially being a rebel?” He snarled. “That’s a serious fucking claim.”

“Sofie and Danika exchanged a number of intentionally vague emails,”

Tharion said. “Ones that included an allusion to a safe hiding place here in Lunathion. A place where the weary souls find relief from their suffering.

I’m guessing the Bone Quarter, though I’m not sure even Danika would be so reckless as to send them there. But anyway, it’s not a claim. It’s a fact.”

Ithan shook his head, but it was Hunt who said, “This is a lethal game,

Tharion. One I’d rather not play again.” Bryce could have sworn his hands shook slightly. This had to be dragging up the worst of his memories and fears—he’d been a rebel, once. It had won him two hundred years of servitude.

And today had been long and weird and she hadn’t even told Hunt

about Cormac’s visit at lunch.

But to let this boy be hunted by so many people … She couldn’t sit by.

Not for an instant. So Bryce said, “I can ask Fury tomorrow if she knows

anything about Danika and Sofie. Maybe she can give some insight into where Danika might have suggested hiding.”

“Ask her right now,” Tharion said with unusual seriousness. “It’s Wednesday night. She and Juniper always have date night.” It was half a lie, and Hunt must have known it was for his sake, because

his wing gently brushed over her shoulder.

But Tharion ordered, “Then interrupt it.” “Don’t you know anything about Fury Axtar?” Bryce waved a hand.

“I’ll call her tomorrow morning. She’s always in a better mood after she and June get it on.”

Tharion glanced between her and Hunt, then to Ruhn and Ithan, both

silently watching. The mer reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded stack of papers with a resigned sigh. “Here’s a sampling of the emails,” he said, handing them to Bryce, and aimed for the door again. He paused near Syrinx, then knelt down and petted his head, his thick neck. He straightened Syrinx’s collar and earned a lick of thanks. Tharion’s mouth curled up at the corners as he stood. “Cool pet.” He opened the front door. “Don’t put anything in writing. I’ll be back around lunch tomorrow.”

As soon as the mer shut the door, Hunt said to Bryce, “Getting involved

with this is a bad idea.”

Ruhn said, “I agree.” Bryce only clutched the papers tighter and turned to Ithan. “This is the

part where you say you agree, too.”

Ithan frowned deeply. “I can ignore the shit about Danika and Ophion,

but there’s a kid out there on the run. Who probably has nothing to do with Ophion and needs help.”

“Thank you,” Bryce said, whirling on Hunt. “See?” “It’s Tharion’s business. Leave it alone, Bryce,” Hunt warned. “I don’t

even know why you had to ask about any of this.”

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t ask,” Bryce challenged.

Hunt pushed, “Is this really about finding the kid, or is it about learning

something new about Danika?”

“Can’t it be both?” Hunt slowly shook his head.

Ruhn said, “Let’s think this through, Bryce, before deciding to act. And

maybe burn those emails.”

“I’ve already decided,” she announced. “I’m going to find Emile.” “And do what with him?” Hunt asked. “If the Asteri want him, you’d be

harboring a rebel.”

Bryce couldn’t stop the light from shimmering around her. “He’s

thirteen years old. He’s not a rebel. The rebels just want him to be.”

Hunt said quietly, “I saw kids his age walk onto battlefields, Bryce.” Ruhn nodded solemnly. “Ophion doesn’t turn away fighters based on

their age.”

Ithan said, “That’s despicable.” “I’m not saying it isn’t,” Hunt countered. “But the Asteri won’t care if

he’s thirteen or thirty, if he’s a true rebel or not. You stand in their way, and they’ll punish you.”

Bryce opened her mouth, but—a muscle flickered in his cheek, making

the bruise there all the more noticeable. Guilt punched through her, warring with her ire. “I’ll think about it,” she conceded, and stalked for her bedroom.

She needed a breather before she said or did more than she meant to. A

moment to process the information she’d gotten out of Tharion. She hadn’t put any stock in Briggs’s claim about Danika and the rebels when he’d taunted her with it—he’d been trying to get at her in any way possible. But it seemed she’d been wrong.

She scoured her memory for any detail as she washed away her

makeup, then brushed her hair. Male voices rumbled from the other side of the door, but Bryce ignored them, changing into her pajamas. Her stomach gurgled.

Was Emile hungry? He was a kid—alone in the world, having suffered

in one of those gods-forsaken camps, no family left. He had to be terrified.

Traumatized.

She hoped Sofie was alive. Not for any intel or amazing powers, but so

Emile had someone left. Family who loved him for him and not for being some all-powerful chosen one whose people had long ago been hunted to extinction.

Bryce frowned in the mirror. Then at the stack of papers Tharion had

handed her. The emails between Sofie and Danika—and a few between Sofie and Emile.

The former were exactly as Tharion had claimed. Vague mentions of

things.

But Sofie and Emile’s emails … I had to leave your sunball game before the end, Sofie had written in

one exchange more than three years ago, but Mom told me you guys won!

Congrats—you were amazing out there!

Emile had replied, I was ok. Missed 2 shots.

Sofie had written back, at three in the morning—as if she’d been up late

studying or partying—I once had a game when I missed ten shots! So you’re doing way better than me. :)

The next morning, Emile had said, Thanks, sis. Miss u.

Bryce swallowed hard. Such an ordinary exchange—proof of a normal,

decent life.

What had happened to them? How had he wound up in Kavalla? Part of

her didn’t want to know, and yet … She read the emails again. The loving, casual exchange between siblings.

Did any of the many people searching for Emile want to actually help

him? Not use him, but just … protect him? Maybe he and Sofie would find each other at that rendezvous spot Danika had mentioned. Maybe they’d get lucky, and no one would ever find them.

Danika had always helped those who needed it. Bryce included.

And during the spring attack, when Bryce had run to Asphodel

Meadows … it was the same feeling creeping over her now. The boy needed help. She wouldn’t walk away from it. Couldn’t walk away from it.

But how did Danika factor in to all of this? She needed to know.

Her stomach protested again. Right—dinner. With a silent prayer to

Cthona to keep Emile safe, Bryce emerged from the bedroom and said, “I’m ordering pizza.”

Ruhn said, “I’m in,” as if he’d been invited, but Bryce glanced at the

shut door to Hunt’s bedroom.

If she needed a moment, he’d sure as Hel need a lot longer.

Hunt turned on the shower with a shaking hand. The blast and splatter of the water provided much-needed white noise, a quieting barrier against the

world beyond his bathroom. He’d muttered something about needing a shower and walked in here, not caring what Danaan and Holstrom thought.

Hunt peeled out of his battle-suit, dimly aware of the bruises along his

ribs and his face, the brawl with Pollux almost forgotten.

He couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the surge of acid through his

veins that made every breath torturous.

Fucking Tharion. That stupid, arrogant asshole. Dragging them—

dragging Bryce—into this. The River Queen might have no association with Ophion, but Emile was a rebel’s brother. Danika had possibly been a rebel herself. It brought them far too close to Ophion’s orbit.

Of course Bryce wouldn’t have been able to drop it once she’d heard.

He knew it was irrational to be pissed at her about it, because part of why he adored her was that she was the kind of person who would want to help, but … fucking Hel.

Hunt sucked in a breath, stepping into the now-warm stream, and

clenched his jaw against the rising thunder in his blood and the memories that came with it.

Those strategy meetings in Shahar’s war tent; the bloody, screaming

chaos of battle; his roar as Shahar died, a piece of his heart dying with her; the bolt of unrelenting pain as his wings were sawed off tendon by tendon —

Hunt sucked in another breath, wings twitching, as if in an echo of that

pain.

He couldn’t let it happen again. If all of it had been for Bryce, to get

here—then it had happened so that he’d know when to walk away, and keep her safe.

But he hadn’t been able to find those words. Hunt focused on his

breathing, on the sensation of his feet against the slick tiles, the dribble of water down his wings.

And couldn’t help but think that warm water felt an awful lot like

blood.

Thirty minutes later, they sat around the dining table, four boxes of pizza stacked before them.

“Carnivore’s Delight,” Bryce said with forced cheer to Hunt, sliding the

meat-on-meat-on-meat pizza toward him. He offered a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. She didn’t ask about that haunted gleam, though. Not with Ruhn and Ithan here. Not when Hunt had already made it pretty clear what was going through his head.

They’d undoubtedly have it out the moment they were alone. “Carnivore’s Delight with extra sausage,” she said to Ithan, winking as

she handed over the box. She could have sworn Ithan blushed. “And pepperoni with grilled onions,” she said to Ruhn.

“What’d you get?” her brother asked. An attempt at normalcy after

Tharion’s visit.

Hunt and Ithan said at the same time, “Sausage and onion with extra

cheese.”

Bryce laughed. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or disturbed.” But Ithan and Hunt didn’t smile. She caught Ruhn’s glance from across

the table, and her brother said into her mind, Ignoring all the shit with Tharion and Emile, it’s super fucking weird that Holstrom’s here.

She started on her pizza and sighed at the combination of meat and

cheese and slightly sweet sauce. I think it’s super weird for him, too.

Ruhn bit into his slice. Honestly, don’t flip the Hel out, but you’re

technically a Starborn Princess. And you’re now harboring an exiled wolf. I hate this political crap, but … I wouldn’t put it past Sabine to see this as an affront. The wolves are technically our allies.

Bryce sipped from her beer. It’s not like he has any family left. Her heart

ached. Believe me, he is fucking miserable that he has nowhere else to go.

I can take him in. Her brother spoke with utter sincerity.

Isn’t that the same political bullshit?

I can say that I’m hiring him to work for the Fae side of the Aux. Claim

it’s for a top secret investigation, which I suppose this stuff with Danika and Sofie and Emile is. Sabine can’t get around that.

All right. But … give him a few days. I don’t want him to think I’m

kicking him out.

Why not? He was a dick to you.

There were five years before that when we were close.

So? He was a dick to you when you needed him most.

And I shut him out when he needed me most.

Bryce blinked, finding Hunt and Ithan watching her and Ruhn. The

angel drawled, no hint of his previous haunted discomfort, “Some might consider it rude to have a silent conversation in front of other people.”

Ithan raised his hand in agreement. How he’d figured out what was

going on, she could only attribute to his keen wolf’s abilities. Or his athlete’s skill at reading opponents.

Bryce stuck out her tongue. “Sorry you’re not magical, special Fae like

us.”

“Here we go,” Hunt said, diving into his slice. “I was waiting for this

day to come.”

“What day?” Ithan swigged from his beer.

Hunt smirked. “When Bryce realizes how truly obnoxious being a

princess allows her to be.”

Bryce flipped him off. “If I have to suffer through the title, then you

have to suffer through the effects.”

Hunt opened his mouth, but Ithan said, “I heard you had your Ordeal

that day this spring. Congrats?”

Bryce went still. “Yeah. Uh, thanks.” She didn’t want to think about it

—the nøkk, Syrinx nearly drowning, the tank … Syrinx rubbed against her ankles, as if sensing her distress. And Hunt, also reading it, said to Ruhn, “You had your Ordeal in Avallen, right? And our new friend Cormac was there?”

Before Ruhn could answer, Flynn and Dec strode into the apartment

with a key Bryce definitely hadn’t authorized. She whipped her head to Ruhn. “You gave them fingerprint access and copies of my keys?”

Flynn slid into the chair beside hers and pulled her pizza toward

himself. “We took Ruhn’s fingerprints when he was passed out during the Summer Solstice, as a way into the system. Then Dec added ours alongside them.”

Declan dropped into the chair beside Ruhn, taking one of her brother’s

slices and a beer from the bucket in the center of the table. “We made copies of the physical keys before he noticed they were gone.”

“You’re really making me look good, you two,” Ruhn grumbled.

Bryce shoved out a hand. “I’m changing my fingerprint system to

something more secure. Give me that key.”

Flynn only slid it into his pocket. “Come get it, babycakes.”

Hunt shot the Fae lord a glare, and Declan snickered. “Careful, Flynn,”

Dec warned.

Ithan snorted, and the two males eyed him up. Of course they’d already

noticed him—they were trained warriors—but they hadn’t yet deigned to acknowledge him.

Flynn flashed a charming smile full of teeth. “Hi, pup.” Ithan’s fingers tightened into fists at the term. “Hey.” Declan gave a mirror grin to Flynn’s. “Bryce needed a new pet?” “Okay, okay,” Bryce cut in. “Let’s just say that we made a thousand dog

jokes about Ithan, and he made a thousand Fae asshole jokes about you two idiots, and we now all thoroughly hate each other, but we can be adults and eat our food.”

“I second that.” Hunt dug into his third slice, using his other hand to

clink beers with Bryce.

Flynn grinned again. “I thought I heard you ask Ruhn about his Ordeal.

It was our Ordeal, too, you know.”

“I know,” Bryce said, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “But he won

the prize sword, didn’t he?”

“Ouch.” Flynn clutched his chest. “Cold, B,” Declan said.

Ruhn chuckled and leaned back in his seat, finishing off his beer before

he said, “I was twenty-seven. My—our father sent me to Avallen to … check out the ladies.”

“There was a Fae female from a powerful family who the Autumn King

wanted Ruhn to marry,” Flynn explained. “Unfortunately, Cormac wanted to marry her, too. Neither married her in the end, of course.”

Bryce groaned. “Please tell me all this tension between you two isn’t

over a girl.”

“Only partially,” Declan said. “It’s also because Cormac and his twin

cousins tried to kill us. Cormac literally put a sword through my gut.” He patted his rock-hard abs.

“Aren’t you Fae all … allies?” Ithan asked, brows raised.

Flynn nearly spat out his drink. “Valbaran Fae and Avallen Fae hate

each other. The Avallen Fae are a bunch of backward assholes. Prince Cormac might be Ruhn’s cousin, but he can drop dead for all we care.”

“Strong family bonds, huh?” Hunt said.

Flynn shrugged. “They deserved what happened during the Ordeal.” “Which was what, exactly?” Bryce asked. “Humiliation,” Declan said with relish. “A few weeks into our visit,

King Morven—Cormac’s dad—ordered Ruhn to go see if he could retrieve the Starsword from the caves.”

“Tell the whole story, Dec. Why did he order me to do that?” Ruhn

growled.

Dec sheepishly grinned. “Because I bragged that you could.” Ruhn cracked open another beer. “And?” “And I made fun of Cormac for not having gone to retrieve it yet.” “And?” “And I said that one Valbaran Fae warrior was better than ten from

Avallen.”

Bryce laughed. “So Uncle Morven sent you off to teach you a lesson?” “Yep,” Flynn said. “All three of us. We didn’t realize until we were in

the mist—the caves are literally full of it—that he also sent Cormac and the asshole twins to hunt us in there.”

“Starting blood feuds,” Bryce said to Declan, raising her hand for a

high five. “Nice work.”

Declan clapped her hand, but Ithan asked, “So your Ordeals happened

then?”

“Yeah,” Ruhn said, face darkening. “We all got lost in the caves. There

was some … scary shit in there. Ghouls and wraiths—they were old and wicked. The six of us went from trying to kill each other to trying to stay alive. Long story short, Flynn and Dec and I wound up in these catacombs deep beneath the cave—”

“Surrounded by bloodsucking spirits who were going to eat our bodies,

then our souls,” Flynn added. “Or was it our souls, then our bodies?”

Ruhn shook his head. “I got disarmed. So I looked in the sarcophagus in

the center of the chamber where we were trapped, and … there it was. The Starsword. It was either die at the hands of those creatures or die trying to pull that sword from its sheath.” He shrugged. “Thankfully, it worked.”

Declan said, “Bastards ran screaming from the cave when Ruhn drew

the sword. Right to where Cormac and the twins were hunting us.” He grinned again. “The three of them had no choice but to flee back to their

castle. King Morven was not happy. Especially when Ruhn returned with the Starsword and told him to go fuck himself.”

Bryce lifted her brows at her brother. He smiled, lip ring glinting. “Not

such a loser after all, huh?”

Bryce waved him off. “Whatever.” Flynn suddenly asked Ithan, gaze on his tattooed neck, “You gonna

keep that ink?”

Ithan drained his beer. “What’s it to you?” Another charming grin. “Just want to know when I can tell you that

Sabine and Amelie are two of the worst fucking people in this city.”

Ithan grunted, but a ghost of a smile appeared on his lips.

Bryce glanced to Ruhn, who said into her mind, Might not be such a

bad idea for him to come stay with us.

You really want to be roomies with a wolf?

Better than an angel.

Depends on what you’re doing with that angel.

Gross, Bryce.

Bryce tuned back into the conversation as Declan asked with a wicked

smile that told her he was about to start shit, “So, who’s sleeping where in this apartment tonight?”

Bryce couldn’t help glancing again at Hunt, who kept his face wholly

neutral as he said, “I’m bunking with Bryce.”

Bryce’s mouth popped open, but Ithan said, “Good. She snores.” “Assholes,” Bryce seethed. “You can both go sleep on the roof.” “Not enough distance from your snoring,” Ithan said, smirking.

Bryce scowled, leaning down to pet Syrinx’s velvety ears.

Hunt only winked. “I’ll get earplugs.”

13

Bryce barely slept. She was trying too hard to pretend that Hunt fucking Athalar was not sleeping beside her. The illusion was shattered every time she rolled over, got a face full of gray wings, and remembered that Hunt fucking Athalar was sleeping beside her.

They hadn’t spoken about Tharion’s visit. Or about her decision to find

Emile. So any fight on that front was likely still on the horizon.

Naturally, Bryce woke up puffy-eyed, sweat-slicked, and with a

pounding headache. Hunt was already up and making coffee, to guess by the sounds in the other room.

Bryce slithered out of bed, earning a disgruntled yip from Syrinx at

being disturbed. Her ringing phone aggravated her headache, and it didn’t get any better when she glanced at the caller ID.

She mustered her most chipper voice. “Hi, Mom.” “Hello, Bryce.” Ember’s voice was calm. Too calm.

Ithan smirked from the couch as she passed by, blindly walking toward

the beckoning aroma of coffee. Gods, she needed some. Bryce asked her mom, “What’s up? You guys get home okay?”

The wall of windows revealed a sunny day, witches and angels zooming

by. And, Bryce realized in the morning light, the fact that she was still wearing her worn T-shirt that said Nidaros Community Center Camp Summer 15023 and … little else. Oops. No wonder Ithan was smirking. Her lilac lace demi-thong left little to the imagination. Bryce stifled the urge to tug her shirt’s hem over her half-bare ass.

Hunt’s eyes darkened, but he merely leaned against the counter and

silently offered her a cup of coffee.

“Oh yes,” Ember said. “We got home, had plenty of time to do some

grocery shopping and run a few errands.” Bryce put the phone on speaker and slid it onto the counter, backing away a few feet. Like it was a grenade of compressed firstlight about to explode.

“Great,” Bryce said, and she could have sworn Hunt was trying not to

laugh.

“We also had plenty of time,” her mom went on, “to answer all the

phone calls that we began to get, asking when the wedding is.”

Hunt took a long sip of his coffee. Ithan just watched with a befuddled

expression. Right. She hadn’t told him.

Bryce gritted her teeth in an attempt at a smile. “You and Randall are

renewing your vows?”

Her mom fell silent. A wave building, cresting, about to break. “Is this

engagement some scheme to prompt Hunt to finally confess his love for you?”

Hunt choked on his coffee.

Oh gods. Bryce was half-tempted to pour the boiling coffee over her

head and melt into nothing. “For fuck’s sake,” she hissed, snatching up her phone and taking it off speaker. Even if Hunt and Ithan, with their heightened hearing, could no doubt make out everything Ember said. “Look, it’s not a real engagement—”

“It certainly sounds like it is, Bryce Adelaide Quinlan.” Her mom’s

voice rose with each word. “And it sounds like you’re engaged to the Crown Prince of Avallen! Do you know who his father is?”

“Mom, I’m not going to marry him.” “Then why do so many of my former school friends know about it?

Why are there photos of you two having a private meeting at your office yesterday?”

Hunt’s wings flared with alarm, and Bryce shook her head. Later, she

tried to signal.

“Cormac ambushed me—” “He did what?” “In a nonphysical way. Nothing I couldn’t handle. And,” she said as her

mom began objecting, “I have zero intention of marrying Prince Creepster,

but you gotta trust me to deal with it.” She gave Hunt a look as if to say, You too.

Hunt nodded, getting it. Drank some more coffee. Like he needed it.

Her mother, however, hissed, “Randall is in a panic.” “Randall, or you? Because last I checked, Dad knows I can take care of

myself.” Bryce couldn’t help the sharpness in her tone.

“You’re playing games with Fae royals who will outsmart you at every

turn, who have likely anticipated your reticence—”

Bryce’s phone buzzed. She skimmed the incoming message. Thank

Urd.

“I appreciate your confidence, Mom. I have to go. I’ve got an important

meeting.”

“Don’t you try to—” “Mom.” She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t halt the roiling, rising power

that made her body begin to shimmer, as if she were a pot boiling over with liquid starlight. “You don’t get a say in what I do or don’t do, and if you’re smart, you’ll stay the Hel out of this.”

Stunned silence from her mother. From Hunt and Ithan, too.

The words kept flowing, though. “You have no fucking idea what I’ve

been through, and faced, and what I’m now dealing with.” Her mom and Randall would never know about what she’d done to Micah. She couldn’t risk it. “But let me tell you that handling this bogus engagement is nothing compared to that. So drop it.”

Another pause. Then her mother said, “I knew you bundled us off at the

break of dawn for a reason. I want to help you, Bryce—”

“Thanks for the guilt trip,” Bryce said. She could practically see her

mother stiffening.

“Fine. We’re still at your disposal should you need us, Your Highness.” Bryce started to answer, but her mother had hung up. She slowly,

slowly closed her eyes. Hunt said into the sudden, heavy quiet, “Cormac came by the archives?”

Bryce opened her eyes. “Only to swing his dick around.” Hunt tensed,

and Bryce added, “Not literally.”

His expression turned wary. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because I got a phone call from Celestina that you were in a holding

cell.” She bared her teeth. “Spare me the territorial male act, okay?”

“Hide shit from your parents all you want, but don’t keep stuff from me.

We’re a team.”

“I just forgot. No big deal.” Hunt hesitated. “All right.” He lifted his hands. “Okay. Sorry.” Silence fell, and she became keenly aware of Ithan’s attention. “Hunt

can fill you in on my joyous news,” she said, glancing at the clock. “I do have a meeting, and I need to get dressed.” Hunt arched a brow, but Bryce offered no explanation as she aimed for her bedroom.

She returned to the great room an hour later, showered and in work

clothes. Hunt was already in his 33rd gear.

Bryce said to Ithan, who was doing push-ups in front of the TV with

extraordinary ease, “I’ll pop back in at lunch when Tharion swings by. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge and call if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Ithan said between reps, and Bryce stuck out her

tongue.

Bryce unlocked the door, then buckled Syrinx’s leash before slipping

into the hall. She’d been lonely in the archives yesterday without his company. And maybe a little jealous about the fact that Syrinx had spent the day with Ithan.

And it would have been nice to watch him take a bite out of Prince

Cormac’s ass.

The elevator had just arrived when Hunt appeared behind her, and every

muscle in her body turned electric. Had the elevator always been this small?

Had his wings gotten larger overnight?

“Why are things so weird between us?” Hunt asked.

Going right for the throat, then. “Are things weird?” “Don’t play stupid. Come on—last night was weird. Right now is

fucking weird.”

Bryce leaned against the wall. “Sorry. Sorry.” It was all she could think

to say.

Hunt asked carefully, “When were you going to tell me about Cormac

dropping by the archives? What the fuck did he say?”

“That you and I are losers and he thinks I’m an immature brat.” “Did he touch you?” Lightning skittered along Hunt’s wings. The

elevator lights guttered.

The elevator reached the ground floor before she could answer, and

they fell silent as they passed Marrin, the doorman. The ursine shifter waved goodbye.

Only when they’d stepped onto the sizzling sidewalk did Bryce say,

“No. Cormac’s just a creep. Seems like this city is full of them these days.” She gestured to the sky above, the angels soaring toward the sprawling complex of the Comitium in the CBD. The decorations in Celestina’s honor seemed to have multiplied overnight. “No fights today, okay?”

“I’ll try.” They reached the corner where Bryce would go right, Hunt to the left.

“I mean it, Hunt. No more fights. We need to keep a low profile.” Especially now. They were too close to Ophion for comfort.

“Fine. Only if you call me the moment Prince Asshole contacts you

again.”

“I will. Let me know if Tharion gets in touch. Or if you pick up

anything about …” She glanced at the cameras mounted on the ornately decorated streetlamps and buildings. She couldn’t say Emile’s name here.

Hunt stiffened, wings tucking in. “We need to talk about that. I, ah …”

Shadows darkened his eyes, and her heart strained, knowing what memories caused them. But here it was. The discussion she’d been waiting for. “I know you want to help, and I commend you for it, Bryce. But I think we really need to weigh everything before we jump in.”

She couldn’t resist the impulse to squeeze his hand. “Okay.” His

calluses brushed against her skin. “Good point.”

“Tharion threw me off last night,” he went on. “It dragged up a lot of

old shit for me—and worries for you. But if you want to move forward with this … let’s talk it through first.”

“Okay,” she said again. “But I’m still going to meet with Fury right

now.” She had too many questions not to meet with her.

“Sure,” he said, though worry shone in his gaze. “Keep me updated.”

He slid his hand from hers. “And don’t think we’re done talking about this weirdness between us.”

By the time Bryce had opened her mouth to answer, Hunt had already

launched skyward.

Bryce slid onto a stool at the eight-seat counter that made up Tempest in a Teapot, her favorite tea bar in the city.

Nestled on Ink Street in the heart of the Old Square, most of the narrow,

graffiti-painted alley was quiet, most of the shops shut. Only the tea bar and the tiny bakery operating out of a window between two tattoo parlors were open. Come lunch, the many eateries would roll up their doors and set out the little tables and benches that crowded either side of the street. Once the lunch crowd returned to their offices, the street would quiet again—until the after-work rush of people eager for a beer, a specialty cocktail, or more food. And sundown brought in a whole new crowd: drunk assholes.

“Morning, B,” Juniper said, her curly hair pulled back into an elegant

bun, brown skin glowing in the morning light. She stood alongside Fury, who’d perched herself on a barstool and was scrolling through her phone. “Just wanted to say hi before practice.”

Bryce kissed her friend on her silken cheek. “Hi. You’re gorgeous. I

hate you.”

Juniper laughed. “You should see me when I’m dripping with sweat in

an hour.”

“You’ll still be gorgeous,” Bryce said, and Fury nodded without taking

her focus from her phone. “Did you guys order?”

“Yeah.” Fury put away her phone. “So go ahead.” Juniper said, “Mine’s to go, though.” She tapped her navy dance bag,

which was partially unzipped, the soft pink of her leotard peeking out. For a moment, Bryce allowed herself to look at her friend—really look at the beauty that was Juniper. Graceful and tall and thin, certainly not the wrong body type.

What would it have been like to be heading into morning practice? To

have a dance bag full of gear and not a purse full of random crap on her shoulder? Heels braced on the rail beneath the bar, Bryce couldn’t stop her feet from twitching, arching—as if testing the strength and pliancy of pointe shoes.

Bryce had known the high of performance well. Had craved it those

years in Nidaros, dancing with her small team at the rec hall. She’d been the best dancer in town—in their entire mountainous region. Then she’d come to Lunathion and learned what a fragile bubble she’d been living inside.

And, yeah, ultimately she didn’t think she could have lasted as long as

Juniper, but … seeing the faun standing there, some small part of her wondered. Yearned.

Bryce swallowed, then sighed, clearing away the cobwebs of her old

dreams. Dancing in Madame Kyrah’s class twice a week was pleasure enough. And though Kyrah had once graced the stage of CCB herself until she’d decided to open a studio, the dancer-turned-instructor understood.

So Bryce asked, “What are you guys rehearsing today?” “Marceline,” Juniper said, her eyes flickering. “But I don’t have the

lead.”

Bryce’s brows rose. “I thought you were rehearsing for it these last

weeks.”

Fury said tightly, “Apparently, Marceline’s costume doesn’t fit Juniper.” Bryce’s mouth popped open. “Roles are often determined that way,” Juniper said quickly. “But I’m

fine with soloist.”

Bryce and Fury swapped a look. No, she wasn’t. But after the disaster

this spring, the CCB had put a hold on any “new” changes. Including June’s promotion from soloist to principal.

Juniper had often wondered aloud over drinks or pastries whether that

hold was because she’d been the only one in the bomb shelter to demand that they keep the doors open for humans to get in. Had gone hoof-to-toe with some of their wealthiest patrons, thinking nothing of the consequences for her career.

Of what it might mean for the first faun to ever grace the stage of that

theater to curse out those patrons, to condemn them to their faces for their cowardice and selfishness.

Well, this was what it meant for her.

June slumped into the stool beside Bryce, stretching out her long legs.

Another year of waiting in the wings for her chance to shine.

“So who got your shot at Marceline?” The group of principals and

veteran soloists rotated through the main roles each night.

“Korinne,” Juniper said, a shade too neutrally.

Bryce scoffed. “You’re twenty times the dancer she is.” June laughed softly. “No way.” “Way,” Fury added. “Come on,” Bryce said, elbowing Juniper. “No need to be humble.”

June shrugged, then smiled at the barista as she handed over a green tea

in a to-go cup. “Okay. Maybe twice the dancer she is.”

Fury said, “There’s my girl.” She nodded her thanks to the barista as her

own drink was deposited in a ceramic mug.

Juniper pulled off the lid of her to-go cup and blew on the steaming-hot

brew inside.

Bryce asked, “Did you give any thought to that offer from the Heprin

Company?”

“Yeah,” June murmured. Fury suddenly became very interested in her

drink.

“And?” Bryce pushed. “They’re practically crawling to have you as

principal.” And so were about three other smaller dance companies in the city.

“They’re great,” June said quietly. “But they’re still a step down.” Bryce nodded. She got it. She really did. For a dancer in Valbara, CCB

was the pinnacle. The distant star to aspire to. And June had been so close.

Close enough to touch that glimmer of principal dancer. Now she was in free fall.

“I want to hold out for another year,” June said, putting the lid on her

tea and standing. “Just to see if things change.” Pain gleamed in her friend’s large, beautiful eyes.

“They will,” Bryce assured her, because hope was the only thing she

could offer at the moment.

“Thanks,” Juniper said. “I’m off. I’ll see you at home later,” she said to

Fury, leaning in to kiss her swiftly. When she made to step away, however, Fury put a hand on her cheek, keeping her there. Deepened the kiss for a few heartbeats.

Then Fury pulled back, holding her girlfriend’s stare, and said, “See

you at home.” Sensual promise laced every word.

Juniper was more than a bit breathless, her cheeks flushing, as she

turned to Bryce and kissed her cheek. “Bye, B,” she said, then was gone into the sun and dust.

Bryce glanced sidelong at Fury. “You’ve got it bad, huh?” Fury snorted. “You have no idea.” “How was date night?” Bryce asked, waggling her eyebrows.

Fury Axtar sipped delicately from her tea. “Exquisite.”

Pleasure and happiness quietly radiated from her friend, and Bryce

smiled. “What are you drinking?”

“Chai with almond milk. It’s good. Spicy.” “You’ve never been here?” “Do I look like the kind of person who goes to tea bars?” “Yes …?” Fury laughed, her dark hair swaying. She wore her usual head-to-toe

black, despite the heat. “Fair enough. So, what’s this urgent thing you need to talk to me about?”

Bryce waited until she’d ordered her matcha latte with oat milk before

murmuring, “It’s about Danika.” She and Hunt might need to talk things over regarding Emile, but speaking about this with Fury wasn’t a step toward anything, necessarily. She could learn the truth without being dragged into Ophion’s orbit, right?

At this hour, only the barista and one other patron occupied the bar. The

street was empty save for a few cats picking through piles of trash. Safe enough to talk without being overheard.

Fury kept her posture casual, uninterested. “Does it have to do with

Ithan staying with you?”

“How did you even hear about that?” Fury smiled smugly, but Bryce

shook her head. “Never mind. But no, that’s separate.”

“He’s always had a thing for you, you know.” “Um, Ithan had a thing for Nathalie.” “Sure.” “Whatever.” How to phrase any of this? “You knew about Danika and

the synth stuff. I was wondering if there was anything else you might have been … keeping secret for her.”

Fury sipped her chai. “Care to explain more?” Bryce made a face. “That

wasn’t really a request,” Fury said, her voice lethally soft.

Bryce swallowed. And so quietly only Fury could hear, she told her

about Sofie Renast and Tharion and the River Queen and the hunt to find Emile and all the power he possessed. About the abandoned boat in the marshes and Ophion hunting for the boy as well. About the potential meet-up location that Danika had hinted at three years ago and the vague mentions of Project Thurr and Dusk’s Truth in those emails between Danika and Sofie.

When she’d finished, Fury drained her drink and said, “I’m going to

need something a lot stronger than chai.”

“I’ve been reeling since Tharion told me,” Bryce admitted, voice still

low. “But Danika and Sofie definitely knew each other. Well enough for Sofie to trust Danika to find her a potential place to hide, should she ever need one.”

Fury drummed her fingers on the counter. “I believe you. But Danika

never hinted at involvement with the rebels, and I never picked it up on my usual channels.”

Bryce nearly sagged with relief. Maybe it hadn’t gone too far, then.

Maybe their acquaintance hadn’t been related to Ophion at all. “Do you think the meeting location is the Bone Quarter?” She prayed it wasn’t.

“Danika wouldn’t have sent a kid there, even with thunderbird power in

his veins. And she wouldn’t be so stupid as to make it that obvious.”

Bryce frowned. “Yeah. True.” “As for Dusk’s Truth and Project Thurr …” Fury shrugged. “No idea.

But Danika was always interested in weird, random shit. She could spend hours getting sucked into an interweb research hole.”

Bryce smiled slightly. Also true. “But do you think Danika might have

been keeping anything else a secret?”

Fury seemed to consider. Then said, “The only other secret I knew

about Danika was that she was a bloodhound.”

Bryce straightened. “A what?” Fury signaled the barista for another chai. “A bloodhound—she could

scent bloodlines, the secrets in them.”

“I knew Danika had an intense sense of smell,” Bryce acknowledged.

“But I didn’t realize it was that …” She trailed off, memory surfacing. “When she came home with me over winter break freshman year, she could pick out the family ties of everyone in Nidaros. I thought it was a wolf thing. It’s special?”

“I only know about it because she confronted me when we first met.

She scented me, and wanted to understand.” Fury’s eyes darkened. “We sorted our shit out, but Danika knew something dangerous about me, and I knew something dangerous about her.”

It was as much as Fury had ever said about being … whatever she was. “Why is it dangerous to be a bloodhound?”

“Because people will pay highly to use the gift and to kill anyone with

it. Imagine being able to tell someone’s true lineage—especially if that person is a politician or some royal whose parentage is in question.

Apparently, the gift came from her sire’s line.”

Maybe that was another reason why Danika hadn’t wanted to mention

it. She’d never discussed the male who’d been ballsy enough to fuck Sabine.

Bryce asked, “You never thought to tell me this during the

investigation?”

“It didn’t seem relevant. It was only one of Danika’s many powers.” Bryce lifted a hand to rub at her eyes, then halted, remembering her

makeup. “What are the odds that Sofie knew that?”

“No idea,” Fury said. “Slim, probably.” Then she asked carefully, “You

sure you want to start digging into this? Go after that kid?”

“It’s not only for Emile’s sake,” Bryce confessed. “I want to know what

Danika was up to. I feel like she was always two steps—more like ten steps —ahead. I want to know the full scope of it.”

“She’s dead, Bryce. Knowing or not knowing won’t change that.” Bryce cringed at her friend’s harsh words. “I know. But if Danika was

tied up with Ophion, with Sofie … I want to find Sofie, if she’s alive. Learn whatever it is that Sofie knew about Danika, and how they were even in contact. Whether Danika truly was aligned with Ophion.”

“You’re tangling in some dangerous shit.” “Hunt said the same thing. And … you’re both right. Maybe that makes

me stupid, for not walking away. But setting aside the fact that Emile is a kid being chased by some intense people, if I can locate him for Tharion— he’ll lead me to Sofie, or the information about her. And her answers about Danika.”

Fury saluted her thanks to the barista and sipped her second chai. “And

what will you do once you learn the truth?”

Bryce chewed on her lip. “Pray to Cthona that I can accept it, I guess.”

14

Hunt crossed his arms, trying to focus on the unit sparring in one of the Comitium’s rooftop training areas and not the scorching heat threatening to singe his wings. Beside him, Isaiah also sweated away, dark eyes fixed on a pair of fighting soldiers. The female was faster and cleverer than the male she faced, but the male had a hundred pounds on her. Each of his blows must have felt like being hit by a semitruck.

“My money’s on the male,” Isaiah murmured. “So’s mine. She’s too green to hold out much longer.” Hunt wiped the

sweat from his brow, grateful he’d cut his hair shorter before the heat had set in. Solas was slow-roasting them over a pit of coals. Thank fuck he’d changed in the barracks to shorts and a T-shirt.

“Won’t really matter in the long run,” Isaiah said as the male landed a

blow to her jaw with the pommel of his sword. Blood sprayed from her mouth. “Not if we head into war.”

The great equalizer.

Hunt said nothing. He’d barely slept last night. Hadn’t been able to

calm the thoughts that circled over and over. He’d wanted to talk to Bryce, but that acid in his veins had surged every time he’d gotten close, and dissolved all his words. Even this morning, all he’d been able to say was that they needed to talk.

But Bryce being Bryce, she’d seen all of that. Knew what haunted him.

And held his hand as she said yes.

He checked his phone. Only an hour until Tharion would show up at the

apartment to discuss things. Great.

“You think we’ll wind up back there?” Isaiah went on, face distant. “On

those battlefields?”

Hunt knew which ones he meant, though they’d fought on many.

Sandriel had sent both him and Isaiah to slaughter human rebels decades ago, when Ophion had initially formed.

“I hope not,” Hunt said, blocking out the images of those muddy

massacres: the mech-suits smoldering with their pilots bleeding out inside them; heaps of broken wings piled high to the skies; some shifters going feral and feasting on the carrion alongside the crows.

He looked over at Isaiah. What would his friend say if he knew about

Tharion? Isaiah’s words from their last argument in Shahar’s war tent still rang in his ears. This is folly, Athalar! We fly into slaughter. We have no allies, no route of retreat—you two are going to kill us all!

Hunt had ordered his friend out. Had curled up alongside Shahar, who’d

listened to their argument from her bed behind the curtain of the tent. She’d promised him that Isaiah was wrong, that he was merely afraid, and Hunt had believed her. Because he was also afraid, he realized later. He’d believed her, and they’d fucked like animals, and a few hours after dawn, she was dead.

Hunt shook the memories of the past away and focused on the fight in

front of him. The female ducked and slammed her fist into the male’s gut.

He went down like a sack of flour, and Hunt chuckled, memories and dread shaking loose. “A pleasant surprise,” he said, turning his attention to the other soldiers paired off throughout the space. Sweat gleamed on bare skin, wings white and black and brown and gray rustled, and blood shone on more than a few faces.

Naomi was in the skies training a unit in dive-bombing maneuvers. It

was an effort not to glance to the far ring, where Pollux and Baxian oversaw a unit practicing their shooting. The latter was currently in his large canine form, his coat a slick black.

It felt wrong to have those two pieces of shit here, instead of Vik and

Justinian.

So wrong that he did look at them after all. Sized up the Helhound’s

animal form. He’d seen Baxian rip limbs from opponents with those jaws, and move as fast on land as he did in his malakh form. As if sensing his attention, Baxian turned his head. His dark eyes gleamed.

Hunt bristled at the blatant challenge in Baxian’s gaze. It didn’t lessen

when Baxian shifted in a flash of light, a few angels nearby startling at the return of his humanoid form.

Isaiah murmured, “Relax,” as Baxian said something to Pollux before

stalking for them.

Baxian stood nearly as tall as Hunt, and despite the sweltering heat, he

still wore head-to-toe black that matched his wings and his Helhound pelt. “I thought you were doing something far more interesting here in Valbara, Athalar. I’m surprised you haven’t dropped dead from boredom.”

Isaiah took that as a cue to check on the male who’d fallen, winking at

Hunt as he left.

Traitor. “Some of us crave a normal life, you know,” Hunt said to Baxian.

Baxian snickered. “All those battles, all that glory you won for yourself,

all that lightning in your veins … and you simply want a nine-to-five job?” He tapped the scar on his neck. “The male who gave me this would be horrified.”

“The male who gave you that,” Hunt said through his teeth, “always

wanted peace.”

“Didn’t seem like it when your lightning flayed me.” “You handed over that rebel family to Sandriel without a second

thought. I’d say you had it coming.”

Baxian laughed, low and lifeless. The hot, dry breeze rustled his black

wings. “You were always a literal sort of bastard. Couldn’t read between the lines.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Hunt’s power flared at his fingertips.

Baxian shrugged. “I might not have been a slave as you are—were.” A

nod toward his clear brow. “But I had as little choice in serving Sandriel as you did. Only I didn’t make my displeasure known.”

“Bullshit. You served her gladly. You don’t get to rewrite your history

now that you’re here.”

Baxian’s wings rustled. “You never asked me why I was in her triarii,

you know. Not once, in all those decades. You’re like that with everyone, Athalar. Surface-level.”

“Fuck off. Go back to your work.”

“This is my work. The Governor just messaged me and told me to team

up with you.”

Hunt’s stomach turned. Did Celestina somehow know about Tharion

asking for help finding that thunderbird kid? What better way to monitor him than to shackle him to the Helhound? “Hel no,” he said.

Baxian’s mouth curled upward as he nodded toward Pollux. “I’ve been

stuck with that prick for a hundred years. It’s someone else’s turn to deal with him.” He pointed to Naomi.

Was it selfish to be glad he didn’t have to deal with the Hammer? “Why

not tell us during the meeting earlier?”

“I think she’s been watching us this morning.” Baxian inclined his head

to the cameras. “Likely didn’t want to alter our behavior before deciding who to pair up.”

“To what end?” As if in answer, Hunt’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his shorts to

find a message from Celestina.

As Isaiah will be escorting me around the city to meet its various

leaders, I am relying on you and Naomi to help our two new arrivals adjust.

I’d like you to partner with Baxian. Show him the ropes. Not just the ins and outs of the 33rd, but also how this city operates. Ease him into life in Valbara.

Hunt considered, even as he inwardly groaned. He was acutely aware of

those cameras—the Archangel might be observing his every expression. “She put Naomi in charge of helping Pollux adjust?”

Across the ring, Isaiah was now checking his phone, frowning deeply.

He glanced to Hunt, face lit with alarm. Not at the honor of escorting the Governor, Hunt knew.

Hunt turned back to Baxian, who’d no doubt gleaned that Hunt had all

the orders he needed. “There’s no way Pollux will allow anyone to show him the ropes.”

Baxian shrugged. “Let Pollux dig his own grave here. He’s too pissed

about being separated from the Hind to understand his new reality.”

“I didn’t realize the Hammer was capable of caring for anyone like

that.”

“He isn’t. He just likes to have control over his … belongings.”

“The Hind belongs to no one.” Hunt hadn’t known Lidia Cervos well—

their time had only briefly overlapped when he’d served Sandriel, and the Hind had spent most of it off on missions for the Asteri. Rented out like some sort of field-worker to do their spy-hunting and rebel-breaking.

Whenever Lidia had been at Sandriel’s castle, she’d either been in secret meetings with the Archangel, or fucking Pollux in whatever room they felt like using. Thank the gods the Hind hadn’t come here. Or the Harpy.

But if Emile Renast was heading for this city … Hunt asked, “The

Hind’s really not coming to Lunathion?”

“No. Pollux got a call from her this morning. He’s been moody ever

since.”

“Mordoc finally making his move?” The head of the Hind’s

dreadwolves was as formidable as his mistress.

Baxian snorted. “He’s not Lidia’s type. And doesn’t have the balls to go

head-to-head with Pollux.”

“Did Mordoc go with her to Ephraim?” He had to step carefully. “Yeah,” Baxian said, attention on Pollux. “They’re all in Forvos right

now. Ephraim’s been keeping them close for the last few weeks—it’s pissed off the Hind. The Harpy’s even madder.”

So the Hind wasn’t in pursuit of Emile. At least, not at present. Which

left the Ophion agents as the main danger to the boy, he supposed. He made a mental note to tell Tharion when he saw him later and said, “I thought you and the Harpy were a pair—you don’t seem too hung up on not seeing her.”

Baxian let out another one of those low laughs that skittered over

Hunt’s bones. “She and Pollux would be a better pair than him and Lidia.” Lidia. Hunt had never heard Baxian use the Hind’s given name, but he’d used it twice now. “She’ll make Ephraim miserable,” Baxian went on, smiling to himself. “Too bad I can’t see it.”

Hunt almost pitied Ephraim for inheriting the Harpy. “And the Hawk?” “Doing what he does best: trying to outdo Pollux in cruelty and

brutality.” The hawk shifter had long been Pollux’s main rival for power.

Hunt had steered clear of him for decades. So had Baxian, he realized. He’d never seen them interact.

“You’re a free male,” Hunt said carefully. “Sandriel’s gone. Why keep

serving at all?”

Baxian ran a hand over his closely buzzed hair. “I could ask the same

question of you.”

“I need the money.” “Is that so?” Baxian clicked his tongue. “Bryce Quinlan’s an expensive

girlfriend, I take it. Princesses like pretty things.”

Hunt knew better than to deny that Bryce was his girlfriend. Not if it’d

open a door for Baxian to taunt him. “Exactly.”

Baxian continued, “I like her. She’s got balls.” Isaiah shouted Hunt’s name from across the space, and Hunt nearly

sagged with relief to have an excuse to get out of this conversation. “Here’s the first rule of getting adjusted: don’t fucking talk to me unless I talk to you.” As Isaiah’s Second, he outranked Baxian.

Baxian’s eyes flared, as if realizing it. “I’m taking this assignment

seriously, you know.”

Hunt gave him a savage grin. “Oh, I know.” If he had to help Baxian

adjust, he’d happily drag him into the current century. Hopefully kicking and screaming. “So am I.”

Baxian had the good sense to look a little nervous.

Tharion wanted to own Bryce Quinlan’s apartment. Badly.

But he sure as shit didn’t make enough to afford it, and the sun would

shine in Hel before the River Queen allowed him to live Above. The thought had him scowling as he knocked on the apartment door.

The lock clicked, and Ithan Holstrom peered out from the doorway,

brows high. “Bryce isn’t back yet.”

“She already told me.” Tharion held up his phone, displaying the brief

exchange with the Fae Princess from a few minutes ago.

I’m at your apartment and ready to go through your underwear drawer.

She’d written back immediately, You’re early. I’ll be there in ten. Don’t

leave drool stains on the lace ones. Or worse.

No promises, he’d answered, and she’d replied, Just spare the pink bra,

please.

To Tharion’s surprise, Ithan checked that the number under her contact

info was indeed Bryce’s. Smart kid. Ithan’s jaw worked before he said, “I thought she was involved with Athalar.”

“Oh, she is,” Tharion said, pocketing his phone. “But Legs and I have

an understanding when it comes to her underwear.” He stepped forward, a blatant demand to be let in.

Ithan stiffened, teeth flashing. Pure wolf. But the male opened the door

wider, stepping aside. Tharion kept a healthy distance away as he entered.

How many sunball games had Tharion watched where this male had scored the winning shot? How many times had he yelled at his TV, ordering Ithan to throw that fucking ball? It was weird to see him face-to-face. To go toe-to-toe with him.

Tharion plopped onto the ridiculously comfortable white couch, sinking

deep into the cushions. “It occurred to me after I left last night that you didn’t say much about Danika.”

Ithan leaned against the counter. “What do you mean?” Tharion smirked. “You might be a jock, but you’re not dumb. I mean

about what I told Bryce last night.”

“Why would Danika tell me anything about knowing a rebel?” “You were pretty damn close with her.” “She was my Alpha.” “You weren’t part of the Pack of Devils.” “No, but I would have been.” Tharion toed off his shoes and propped his bare feet on the coffee table.

Sports news blared on the TV. “Weren’t you all set to go pro?”

Ithan’s face tightened. “That’s none of your business.” “Right. I’m just Captain Whatever.” Tharion gave him a salute. “But if

you knew about any involvement Danika had, if there was a place Danika might have told Sofie was safe for hiding here in the city that sounds like it might be where the weary souls find relief, or even if your brother—”

“Don’t talk about my brother.” Ithan’s snarl rattled the glasses in the

kitchen cabinets.

Tharion held up his hands. “Noted. So you don’t know anything.” “We didn’t talk about the rebellion, or the war, or anything of the sort.”

A muscle ticked in Ithan’s jaw. “I don’t appreciate being dragged into this.

Or having Bryce dragged into it, either. You’re endangering her simply by mentioning it. Hunting for a missing kid is one thing, but the shit with Ophion is deadly.”

Tharion gave the male a winning smile. “I have my orders, and I’m

bound to obey them.”

“You’re an idiot if you don’t see the risk in spreading this intel about

your queen searching for Emile.”

“Maybe, but what she’ll do to me if I disobey will be a Hel of a lot

worse than what Sabine and Amelie did to you.” Another grin. “And I won’t have pretty Bryce to kiss my wounds after.”

Ithan snarled again. Did the wolf have any idea what he revealed with

that snarl alone? He’d been such a smart sunball player, never broadcasting his moves. Seemed like he’d lost the skill.

But Tharion went on, “Danika did a lot of shady shit before she died.

Bryce knows that. You’re not protecting her by refusing to talk.” Tharion eased to his feet, then stalked for the fridge, keenly aware of the wolf’s every breath.

He’d opened the door to rummage for snacks when Ithan said, “She was

a history major.”

Tharion arched a brow. “Yeah?” Ithan shrugged. “She once told me she was doing research on

something that would likely land her in a heap of trouble. But when I asked her later what she’d gotten on the paper, she said she’d changed subjects. I always thought it was weird.”

Tharion shut the fridge door and lounged against it. “Why?” “Because Danika was relentless. If she was interested in something, she

didn’t stop. I didn’t really believe that she’d have changed the subject of her paper without good reason.”

“You think a college student found something top secret that led her to

Ophion?”

“Danika wasn’t ever only a college student.” “The same way you weren’t ever just a college sunball player, huh?” Ithan ignored the barb. “You asked me about Danika. Aside from

everything that went down with the synth, that’s the only thing I can think of. Sorry if it’s not what you hoped for.”

Tharion just looked at the male leaning against the counter. Alone.

Maybe he was a sappy bastard, but Tharion pointed toward the TV. “I

missed the sunball game against Korinth last night and want to see the highlights. Mind if I watch with you while we wait for the others?”

Ithan frowned, but Tharion put a hand on his heart. “No secret spying

stuff, I swear.” He sighed. “I could use a few minutes of peace.”

Ithan weighed the words, Tharion’s expression, with a keen-eyed

sharpness that the wolf had used on his opponents. Perhaps the sunball player wasn’t dead after all.

But Ithan only said, “There’s leftover pizza if you’re hungry.”

15

Ruhn met his sister outside the Fae Archives right as the lunchtime crowds spilled into the warren of streets in Five Roses.

Amid the throng, few of the milling Fae noticed them, too focused on

getting food or scrolling through their phones. Still, Bryce slid on a sunball cap and a pair of sunglasses as she stepped onto the blisteringly hot street that even the trees and greenery of FiRo couldn’t entirely cool.

“I’m not wearing that getup,” Ruhn said. Certainly not in Fae territory.

“People are going to figure out who you are pretty damn fast.”

“I can’t take any more of the gawking.” “Comes with the territory.” Bryce grumbled something Ruhn chose not to hear. “So Tharion’s back

at the house?” he asked as they headed toward her apartment.

“Yep. Already grilling Ithan.” Which was why she’d asked him to come

as backup. A fact that gave him no small amount of satisfaction.

They crossed a busy intersection teeming with Fae and shifters, the

occasional draki making their way past. Ruhn said, “I take it you didn’t invite me to walk you home for some muscle in the mean streets of Crescent City.” He wryly nodded to the angels and witches soaring overhead, the little otter in his yellow vest scooting by, the family of some sort of equine shifters trotting between the cars.

She glared at him over her sunglasses. “I wanted to discuss something

with you—and I don’t trust the phone. Or messages.”

Ruhn blew out a breath. “I know the shit with Cormac is absurd—” “It’s not about Cormac. It’s about Danika.”

“Danika?” “I saw Fury this morning. She told me Danika was a bloodhound. Do

you know what that is?”

“Yes,” Ruhn said, surprise shooting through him. “You’re simply …

telling me this?”

His sister waved a dismissive hand. “Danika kept a lot of things from

me. And I don’t see the point in keeping secrets anymore.”

“It’s okay to be pissed at her, you know.” “Spare me the self-help lecture, okay?” “Fair enough.” He rubbed his jaw. “I guess this explains how Danika

knew we were siblings before anyone else.” He’d never forget running into Bryce and Danika at that frat party—his first time seeing his sister in years.

And how Danika had stared at him. Then looked at Bryce, brows high. He’d known in that moment that Danika had guessed what no one else had, even as Bryce introduced him as her cousin. He’d chalked it up to her uncanny observation skills.

“I thought she was just good at scenting,” Bryce said, fanning her face

against the heat. “Not a genius or whatever. Do you think this could have anything to do with her connection to Sofie?”

“It seems like a stretch. Danika was a powerful, influential Vanir

regardless of that gift. She could have been sought out by Sofie or Ophion for a host of other reasons.”

“I know.” They fell silent until Bryce halted outside the glass doors of

her apartment building. “Maybe Sofie thought Danika could help free her brother from Kavalla or something. It sounded like she was working on that for years before she was able to get to him. Maybe she imagined Danika had the influence.”

Ruhn nodded. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it had been like—for

Emile to endure, and for Sofie to spend every moment of every day praying and working for his survival. That she hadn’t given up, that she’d accomplished it … Ruhn had no words. “Did Danika have that kind of sway, though?” he asked.

Bryce shook her head. “I mean, she might have been able to, but she

never tried to do anything like that, as far as I know. And I don’t see why Sofie would contact Danika, of all people, when Danika was here and Sofie was over in Pangera. It doesn’t add up.” Bryce flipped her ponytail over a

shoulder and grunted her frustration. “I want to know what Sofie knew about Danika.”

“I get that,” Ruhn said carefully. “And I get why you want to find

Emile, too. But I’ll say this one more time, Bryce: if I were you, I’d stay out of whatever game Tharion and the River Queen are playing in looking for the kid. Especially if Ophion is on the hunt for Emile as well.”

Bryce opened the door to her building, air-conditioning smothering

them like a frosty blanket, and waved to Marrin. The ursine shifter waved back from the front desk, and Ruhn offered a half smile to the male before he stepped into the elevator after his sister.

Ruhn waited until the doors had shut before he said softly, “I know

Athalar already said this to you last night, but the Asteri could kill you for even getting involved. Even if it’s something as seemingly harmless as finding this kid.”

Bryce idly wrapped the length of her ponytail around a wrist. “They

could have killed me this spring, but they didn’t. I’m guessing they won’t now.”

Ruhn toyed with his lip ring, tugging on the silver hoop as the elevator

doors opened and they stepped out onto her floor. “If they want you alive, I’d start wondering why that is. You have the Horn in your back. That’s no small thing.” He couldn’t help himself from glancing at his sister’s back as he said it, eyeing the upper tendrils of the tattoo visible above her dress. “You’re a power player now, Bryce, whether you like it or not. And trust me, I get it—it sucks to want to be normal but to have all this other shit that keeps you from being that way.” His voice turned hoarse and she looked over a shoulder at him, face neutral. “But you’re Starborn and you have the Horn. And you have a lot of power thanks to the Drop. The Bryce before this spring might have searched for Emile with few repercussions, but the Bryce who exists now? Any move you make will be politicized, analyzed— viewed as an act of aggression or rebellion or outright war. No matter what you say.”

Bryce sighed loudly—but her eyes had softened. Either at what he’d

said, or what he’d admitted to her about his own life. “I know,” she said before unlocking the front door to her apartment.

They found Tharion on the couch with Ithan, the TV blasting the latest

sports stats. Tharion munched on a piece of pizza, long legs sprawled out in

front of him, bare feet on the coffee table.

Ruhn might have stepped inside to grab a piece of that pizza had Bryce

not gone still.

A Fae sort of stillness, sizing up a threat. His every instinct went on

high alert, bellowing at him to defend, to attack, to slaughter any threat to his family. Ruhn suppressed it, held back the shadows begging to be unleashed, to hide Bryce from sight.

Ithan called over to them, “Pizza’s on the counter if you want some.” Bryce remained silent as fear washed over her scent. Ruhn’s fingers

grazed the cool metal of the gun strapped to his thigh.

“Your cat’s a sweetheart, by the way,” Ithan went on, not taking his

focus from the TV as he stroked the white cat curled on his lap. Bryce slowly shut the door behind her. “He scared the shit out of me when he leapt onto the counter a few minutes ago, the bastard.” The wolf ran his fingers through the luxurious coat, earning a deep purr in response.

The cat had stunning blue eyes. They seemed keenly aware as they

fixed on Bryce.

Ruhn’s shadows gathered at his shoulders, snakes ready to strike. He

subtly drew his gun.

Behind her, a familiar ripple of ether-laced power kissed over her skin.

A small reassurance as Bryce croaked, “That’s not a cat.”

Hunt arrived at the apartment just in time to hear Bryce’s words through the shut front door. He was inside in a moment, his lightning gathered at his fingers.

“Oh, calm yourself,” the Prince of the Chasm said, leaping onto the

coffee table.

Swearing, Ithan lunged from the couch and jumped over it with

preternatural grace. Tharion went for a knife at his thigh, a wicked blade with a curved tip. Designed to do its worst damage on the way out.

But Aidas said to Hunt, little fangs glinting, “I thought we were friends,

Orion.”

“It’s Hunt,” he gritted out, lightning skittering over his teeth, zapping

his tongue.

One move and he’d fry the prince. Or try to. He didn’t dare take his

focus off Aidas to check on Bryce’s positioning. Ruhn would make sure she stayed back.

“Regardless,” Aidas said, padding across the coffee table and jumping

onto the carpet. A glowing light filled the corner of Hunt’s vision, and he found Ruhn standing on Bryce’s other side, Starsword in hand.

But Bryce, damn her, walked forward. Hunt tried to block her, but she

easily sidestepped him, her chin high as she said, “Good to see you again, Aidas.”

Ruhn, Tharion, and Ithan all seemed to inhale at once.

Hunt hardly breathed as the cat trotted up to her and wended between

her legs, brushing against her shins. “Hello, Princess.”

Hunt’s blood chilled. The demon prince purred the word with such

intent. Such delight. Like he had some sort of claim on her. Hunt’s lightning flared.

Aidas trotted for the counter and jumped onto it in one graceful spring,

then surveyed all of them. His blue gaze returned to Bryce at last. “Why don’t you know how to use your powers yet?”

Bryce rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck, and held out a hand. A

kernel of starlight flared in her palm. “I can use them.”

A soft, hissing laugh. “Party tricks. I meant your real powers. Your

heritage.”

Hunt’s fingers tightened on his gun. Bryce challenged, “What powers?” Aidas’s eyes glowed like blue stars. “I remember the last Starborn

Queen, Theia, and her powers.” He seemed to shudder. “Your light is her light. I’d recognize that luster anywhere. I’m assuming you have her other gifts as well.”

“You knew the last Starborn Queen?” Ruhn asked. Starlight glinted

among Ruhn’s shadows, shimmering down the length of his sword.

Aidas’s eyes now flared with a strange sort of rage as he looked upon

the Fae Prince. “I did. And I knew the sniveling prince whose light you bear.” A ripple of stunned silence went through the room.

Ruhn, to his credit, didn’t back down an inch. But from the corner of

Hunt’s vision, he noted Ithan and Tharion creeping into mirroring positions behind the Prince of the Chasm.

Bryce said, more to herself than to the demon prince, “I hadn’t realized

they’d have individualized starlight. I always thought mine was only … brighter than yours.” She frowned at Ruhn. “I guess it makes sense that there could be nuances to the light amongst the Fae that got interbred.

Theia’s elder daughter, Helena, had the gift—and married Prince Pelias.

Your ancestor.”

“He’s your ancestor, too,” Ruhn muttered. “Pelias was no true prince,” Aidas spat, fangs bared. “He was Theia’s

high general and appointed himself prince after he forcibly wed Helena.”

“I’m sorry,” Ithan said, scrubbing at his face, “but what the fuck is this

about?” He glanced at the pizza on the table, as if wondering whether it had been spiked with something.

Welcome to our lives, Hunt wanted to say.

But Bryce’s face had gone pale. “Queen Theia allowed this?” “Theia was dead by that point,” Aidas said flatly. “Pelias slew her.” He

nodded to the Starsword in Ruhn’s hand. “And stole her blade when he’d finished.” He snarled. “That sword belongs to Theia’s female heir. Not the male offspring who corrupted her line.”

Bryce swallowed audibly, and Ruhn gaped at his blade. “I’ve never

heard any of this,” the Fae Prince protested.

Aidas laughed coldly. “Your celebrated Prince Pelias, the so-called first

Starborn Prince, was an impostor. Theia’s other daughter got away— vanished into the night. I never learned of her fate. Pelias used the Starsword and the Horn to set himself up as a prince, and passed them on to his offspring, the children Helena bore him through rape.”

That very Horn that was now tattooed into Bryce’s back. A chill went

down Hunt’s spine, and his wings twitched.

“Pelias’s craven blood runs through both of your veins,” Aidas said to

Ruhn.

“So does Helena’s,” Ruhn shot back, then recited, “Night-haired

Helena, from whose golden skin poured starlight and shadows.”

Bryce clicked her tongue, impressed. “You memorized that passage?” Ruhn scowled, as if annoyed she’d focus on that when a demon prince

was before them.

But Bryce asked Aidas, “Why are you telling us this now?”

Aidas shimmered with anger. “Because I was powerless to help then. I

arrived too late, and was vastly outnumbered. After it was over—that’s when I asked my eldest brother for a favor. To face Pelias on the battlefield and wipe him from this world.” Aidas paced a few steps, tail swishing. “I tell you this now, Bryce Quinlan, so the past does not repeat itself. Are you doing anything to help in this endless war?”

“You mean the rebel cause?” Tharion asked, face taut with disbelief and

dread.

Aidas didn’t take his eyes off Bryce as he said, “It is the same war we

fought fifteen thousand years ago, only renewed. The same war you fought, Hunt Athalar, in a different form. But the time is ripe again to make a push.”

Ithan said slowly, “Hel is our enemy.” “Is it?” Aidas laughed, ears twitching. “Who wrote the history?” “The Asteri,” Tharion said darkly.

Aidas turned approving eyes on him. “You’ve heard the truth in some

form, I take it.”

“I know that the official history of this world is not necessarily to be

believed.”

Aidas leapt off the counter, trotting to the coffee table again. “The

Asteri fed their lies to your ancestors. Made the scholars and philosophers write down their version of events under penalty of death. Erased Theia from the record. That library your former employer possesses,” he said, turning to Bryce, “is what remains of the truth. Of the world before the Asteri, and the few brave souls who tried to voice that truth afterward. You knew that, Bryce Quinlan, and protected the books for years—yet you have done nothing with that knowledge.”

“What the fuck?” Ithan asked Bryce.

Aidas only asked, “What was this world before the Asteri?” Tharion said, “Ancient humans and their gods dwelled here. I’ve heard

the ruins of their civilization are deep beneath the sea.”

Aidas inclined his head. “And where did the Asteri come from? Where

did the Fae, or the shifters, or the angels come from?”

Bryce cut in, “Enough with the questions. Why not just tell us? What

does this have to do with my … gifts?” She seemed to choke on the word.

“The war approaches its crescendo. And your power isn’t ready.”

Bryce flicked the length of her ponytail over a shoulder. “How fucking

cliché. Whatever my other powers are, I want nothing to do with them. Not if they somehow link me to you—the Asteri will consider that a serious threat. Rightly so.”

“People died so you could have this power. People have been dying in

this battle for fifteen thousand years so we could reach this point. Don’t play the reluctant hero now. That is the cliché.”

Bryce seemed at a loss for words, so Hunt stepped in. “What about your

eldest brother, with his armies? They seem perfectly content to slaughter innocent Midgardians.”

“Those armies have always been to help you. Not to conquer.” “The attack on this city last spring suggests otherwise,” Hunt argued. “A mistake,” Aidas said. “The beasts that swept in were … pets.

Animals. Micah opened the doors to their pens. They ran amok as they saw fit. Fortunately, you took control of the situation before our intervention was required,” he said, smiling at Bryce.

“A lot of people died,” Ithan growled. “Children died.” “And more will soon die in this war,” Aidas countered coolly. “Hel’s

armies shall strike at your command, Bryce Quinlan.”

The words dropped like a bomb. “Bullshit,” Ruhn said, face crinkling as he snarled. “You’re waiting for

the right moment when we’re all at war with each other, so you’ll be able to find a way into this world at last.”

“Not at all,” Aidas said. “I already know the way into this world.” He

pointed with a paw to Bryce and inclined his head. “Through my lovely Bryce and the Horn on her back.” Hunt suppressed a growl at the word my as all of them looked to her. Her eyes remained fixed on Aidas, her lips a thin line. The Prince of the Chasm said, “It’s your choice in the end. It has always been your choice.”

Bryce shook her head. “Allow me to get this straight: You’re here to

convince me to rebel against the Asteri in front of all these people? And what—sign up with Ophion? No, thank you.”

Aidas only chuckled. “You should have looked more carefully at the

cats picking through the trash in the alley of Ink Street this morning. Should have picked a more discreet location to discuss the rebellion with Fury Axtar.” Bryce hissed, but said nothing as Aidas went on, “But yes—by all

means, turn rebel. Help Ophion, if you need some authority to answer to. I can tell you before you undoubtedly ask, I have no information about the connection between Danika Fendyr and Sofie Renast.”

Bryce growled, “I don’t even know any Ophion rebels.” Aidas stretched out his front paws, back arching. “That’s not true.”

Hunt stilled as the demon yawned. “There’s one right behind you.”

Bryce whirled, Hunt with her, lightning poised to strike.

Cormac Donnall stood in the doorway, shadows fading from his

shoulders.

“Hello, Agent Silverbow,” Aidas crooned, then vanished.

16

“I’m sorry,” Ruhn blurted, gaping at the Avallen Prince in the doorway, “you’re what?” Bryce’s gaze darted between her brother and their cousin.

Ithan was sniffing delicately toward Cormac, clearly putting together who stood before them.

“Agent Silverbow?” Tharion demanded.

Ruhn went on, “Does your father know about this? Does my father?”

Bryce swapped a glance with her brother. They could use this. Maybe she’d get out of the engagement—

Cormac’s face darkened with menace. “No. Nor will they ever.” Threat

rumbled in every word.

Bryce might have joined in on the interrogation, had the star on her

chest not flared through the fabric of her dress. She clapped a hand over it.

Trust Aidas to reveal Cormac’s secret and then bail. Bryce had a strong

feeling that the Prince of the Chasm had also let Cormac through the wards using his unholy power.

Fucking demon.

Cormac bristled as he glared around the room. “What the fuck do you

know about Sofie Renast?”

Bryce pushed her hand harder against her chest, grinding against her

sternum as she countered, “What the fuck do you know about Sofie Renast, Agent Silverbow?”

Cormac whirled on her, stalking closer. “Answer me.” Hunt casually stepped into his path. Lightning danced over his wings.

Alphahole to the core, yet it warmed something in her.

Tharion slumped onto the couch, an arm slung lazily along the back

cushions, and peered at his nails. He drawled to Cormac, “And you are?”

Shadows ran down Cormac’s arms, trailing like smoke from his

shoulders. Like Ruhn’s shadows—only darker, more feral somehow. Some small part of her was impressed. The Avallen Prince growled, “Cormac Donnall. I’ll ask one more time, mer. What do you know about Sofie?”

Tharion crossed an ankle over a knee. “How do you know I’m mer?”

Solas, was Tharion riling him for the Hel of it?

“Because you reek of fish,” Cormac spat, and Tharion, gods bless him,

lifted an arm to sniff his armpit. Ithan chuckled. Most Vanir could detect when a mer was in their humanoid form by that scent of water and salt—not an unpleasant one, but definitely distinct.

Hunt and Ruhn weren’t smiling. She had to admit her brother cut a

rather imposing figure. Not that she’d ever tell him that.

Tharion smirked at Cormac. “I’m guessing Sofie is your … girlfriend?” Bryce blinked. Cormac let out a snarl that echoed into her bones. “Impressive,” Hunt murmured to Bryce, but she didn’t feel like smiling.

Cormac had turned on her once again. “You know Sofie.” “I don’t—didn’t,” Bryce said, stepping to Hunt’s side. “I never heard of

her until yesterday, when he came to ask some questions.” She shot a look at Tharion, who held up his long-fingered hands. “But I now have a Hel of a lot of my own questions to ask, so can we all just … sit down and talk?

Instead of this weird standoff?” She shut the apartment door, and then claimed a seat at one of the stools by the kitchen counter, kicking off her heels beneath it. Ruhn slid onto the one at her left; Hunt perched on the one to the right. Leaving Cormac standing in the middle of the great room, eyeing all of them.

“Why do your shadows appear different from Ruhn’s?” Bryce asked

Cormac.

“That’s the first thing you want to know?” Hunt muttered. She ignored

him.

“How do you know Sofie?” was Cormac’s only reply.

Bryce rolled her eyes. “I already told you—I don’t know her. Tharion,

can you put him out of his misery?”

Tharion crossed his arms and settled into the couch cushions. “I was

asked to confirm her death.” Bryce noted that Tharion’s answer could be

interpreted as ensuring a dangerous rebel was dead. Smart male.

“And did you?” Cormac’s voice had gone low. His body shook, as if he

was restraining himself from leaping upon Tharion. Embers sparked in his hair.

But Hunt leaned back against the counter, elbows on the stone.

Lightning snaked along his wings; his face was deathly calm. The embodiment of the Umbra Mortis. A thrill shot through Bryce’s veins as Hunt spoke. “You have to realize that you’re not getting any other answers or leaving here alive without convincing us of some key things.”

Gods-damn. He meant it. Bryce’s heart thundered. “So take a breath,” Hunt said to the prince. “Calm yourself.” The angel

smiled, showing all his teeth. “And listen to the lady’s advice and sit the fuck down.”

Bryce pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. But Cormac—he

did indeed take a breath. Another. Bryce glanced at Ithan, but his attention remained on Cormac as the prince breathed, studying his every movement like he was an opponent on the sunball field.

Ruhn, however, met her stare, surprise lighting his features. He said into

her head, I did not see this coming.

Bryce might have replied, but the shadows on Cormac’s arms faded.

His broad shoulders relaxed. Then he stalked to the dining table and sat. His eyes were clear—calmer.

The star on her chest winked out as well. As if reassured that all was

well.

“Good,” Hunt said in that take-no-shit tone that did funny things to her

insides. “First things first: How’d you get in? This place is warded to Hel and back.”

“That cat—or not-cat. That somehow knew who—what I am.” A

glimmer of displeasure in his face hinted that the prince was only leaving that question aside for the moment. “It left a gaping hole in the wards.”

Hunt nodded, like this wasn’t a big fucking deal. “And why did you

come here, at this exact moment?” He’d gone into full-on interrogation mode. How many times had he done this in the 33rd?

Cormac pointed to Tharion. “Because I believe we’re hunting for the

same person: Emile Renast. I want to know what you know.”

Bryce couldn’t stop her low sound of surprise. But Tharion’s face

remained stony. The expression of the River Queen’s Captain of Intelligence. He asked, “Did Pippa Spetsos send you?”

Cormac barked a laugh. “No. Pippa is the reason Emile fled the

Bodegraven.”

“So who sent you to find Emile?” Hunt asked. “No one,” Cormac said, taking another long breath. “I was sent to this

city for another reason, for many reasons, but this matter of finding Emile …” His jaw worked. “Sofie and I were close. I helped her free Emile from Kavalla. And before she …” He swallowed. “I made her a promise—not only as one agent to another, but as a … friend. To look after Emile. I failed her. In every way, I failed her.”

Either he’s an amazing actor, Ruhn said into her head, or he was in love

with Sofie.

Agreed, Bryce said. “Why did Emile run from Pippa?” Tharion asked.

Cormac ran his hands through his blond hair. “He was afraid of her.

He’s wise to be. Pippa is a fanatic on a fast track to promotion into Ophion Command. With so many of our bases recently destroyed, Ophion is nervous enough to start considering her ideas—and I worry they’ll soon start following her as well. There are no lines she and her unit of Lightfall soldiers won’t cross. Did your news over here get wind of that story about the leopard massacre a year ago?”

Bryce couldn’t stop her shudder. Ithan said quietly, “Yeah.” Cormac said, “That was Pippa’s idea, carried out by Lightfall. To use

those Vanir kids and babies to lure their parents out of their hidden dens— and then kill them all. Simply for sport. For the Hel of it. Because they were Vanir and deserved to die. Even the children. She said it was part of cleansing this world. Working their way up to the top: the Asteri. Hence the Lightfall name.”

Hunt looked to Tharion—who nodded gravely. Apparently, the Captain

of Intelligence had heard that, too.

Cormac went on, “Pippa sees Emile as a weapon. The night of the

escape, he took down those imperial Omegas, and she was practically beside herself with excitement. She spooked him with her eagerness to get him onto a battlefield, and he fled on an escape boat before I could

convince him that I was there to help. The boy sailed to the nearest port, then stole another boat.”

“Resourceful kid,” Ithan muttered. “I tracked him as far as these shores.” Cormac jerked his chin at

Tharion. “I saw you in the marshes at the abandoned boat. I figured you were on his trail as well. And I watched you find the remains of the Lightfall soldier’s body—so you must have at least guessed that Pippa wants Emile for her Lightfall unit. If she catches him, she’ll drag him back to Ophion’s main base and turn him into a weapon. Into exactly what the Asteri feared when they hunted down the thunderbirds centuries ago.”

His gaze shifted to Hunt. “You asked why I came here, at this exact

moment? Because when the mer kept returning here, I figured you lot might be involved somehow—some of the very people I was sent here to meet. I hoped Emile might even be here.” Again, his jaw tightened. “If you know where Emile is, tell me. He’s not safe.”

“I don’t understand,” Ruhn said. “You and Pippa are both in Ophion,

yet you’re trying to find Emile to … keep him out of Ophion’s hands?”

“Yes.” “Won’t Ophion be pissed?” “Command will never know of my involvement,” Cormac said. “I have

other tasks here to complete.”

Bryce didn’t like the sound of that for one moment. She slid off the

stool, taking a step toward the dining table. Her mouth began moving before she could think through her words. “You expect us to trust you about all of this when you were so fucking obsessed with a stupid piece of metal that you wanted to kill my brother?” She flung a hand in the general direction of Ruhn and the Starsword in his grip.

Ruhn grunted with surprise as Cormac retorted, “That was fifty years

ago. People change. Priorities change.”

But Bryce took one step closer to the dining table, not caring if Cormac

deemed it a challenge. “Fae don’t change. Not you old-school losers.”

Cormac glanced between her and Ruhn with palpable disdain. “You

Valbaran Fae are such babies. Did you not learn something of yourself, your destiny, Prince Ruhn, because of me nipping at your heels?”

“You put a sword through Dec’s gut,” Ruhn said mildly. “I’d hardly call

that nipping.”

Tharion cut in, “Assuming we buy your story, why would a Fae Prince

join Ophion?”

Cormac said, “I joined because I felt it was right. The details are

unnecessary.”

“Not if you might be working for the Asteri,” Bryce said. “You think I’d turn you over to the Asteri?” Cormac laughed, dead and

cold. “I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone. The dungeons beneath their crystal palace are darker and deadlier than the Pit.”

Hunt said icily, “I know. I was there.” Bryce hated the shadows in his eyes. Ones she’d do anything to help

heal. Do anything to avoid renewing. Team Survive at All Costs—that was her team. She didn’t care if that made her a coward.

Cormac went on, ignoring Hunt, “Sofie was an Ophion agent because

the Asteri butchered her family. Her human family, and her thunderbird ancestors. All she wanted was to find her brother. Everything she did was for him.”

Tharion opened his mouth, but Bryce lifted a hand, cutting him off as

she said to Cormac, “Tharion came by yesterday to ask about a connection between someone I … knew and Sofie. He was being super shady”—a glare from Tharion at this—“so I managed to get some answers out of him, mainly that he’s looking for Emile for the River Queen.”

Cormac narrowed his stare on Tharion. “What does your queen want

with the boy?”

Tharion shrugged.

Ruhn murmured, “Nothing good, I bet.” Tharion rumbled a warning growl at Ruhn, but Bryce continued, “I

don’t care about the politics. Emile’s a kid, and lost—I want to find him.” And get answers about Danika knowing Sofie, but … that could wait for a moment. She wanted to feel Cormac out first.

Indeed, the Avallen Prince’s eyes softened a bit—with gratitude.

Could be faking that, Ruhn observed to her.

Could be, but my gut says he isn’t, Bryce replied before she angled her

head and asked Cormac, “The Hind’s a pretty big deal. She went to all that trouble to kill Sofie just for freeing her brother? Or was it because Sofie’s a thunderbird?”

Cormac’s hands curled into fists at his side. “The Hind went to all that

trouble because Sofie, as collateral to make sure the Ophion boat showed up for Emile, had gathered vital intel on the Asteri, and made sure Command knew it.”

“What?” Hunt blurted, wings twitching. “What kind of intel?” Tharion asked, face darkening.

Cormac shook his head. “Sofie was the only person who knew it. She

just mentioned to me that it was something big—war-changing. That Ophion would kill to have it. And our enemies would kill to contain it.”

Across the room, Ithan was wide-eyed. Had any of his training prepared

him for this? Had any of hers?

Tharion said, “The Asteri probably sent the Hind to kill her before she

could tell anyone else.”

Cormac grimaced. “Yes. But I suspect the Hind knew Sofie could hold

out against torture, and decided it was best the information die with her.” He shuddered and said, “They ripped out her nails when she went into Kavalla, you know. She told me that they tore out the nails on one hand, and when they asked her for any information, she held out her other hand to them.” He laughed to himself. “One of the guards fainted.”

“Brave female,” Ithan said softly, earning a thankful nod from Cormac

that had Bryce wishing she’d said as much herself. Bryce studied her own manicured nails. Wondered if she’d be able to hold out if it ever came to that.

Cormac again turned to Tharion, his face bleak. “Tell me the Hind at

least put a bullet in her head before she sent Sofie down to the deep.”

“I don’t know,” Tharion said. “Her body wasn’t there.” “What?” Shadows rippled from Cormac again.

Tharion went on, “The lead blocks, the chains were there. But Sofie’s

body was gone. And the shackles had all been unlocked.”

Cormac shot to his feet. “Sofie is alive?” Such raw hope filled his voice. Was it from genuine love? Or hope that

the intel she carried lived on?

“I don’t know,” Tharion answered. Then he admitted, “But that’s why I

came to Bryce. She had a friend who knew Sofie years ago. I’m investigating any connections between them—I’m wondering if it might give us hints about Emile’s whereabouts.” Tharion shrugged. “I have good

reason to believe that a safe meeting place was set up long ago for a scenario like this, and that Emile might be headed there—and Sofie, too, if she’s alive.”

Would Sofie have passed that vital intel to her brother? Bryce found

Hunt giving her a Don’t even think about it look.

Cormac said, pacing, “Sofie made the Drop—at an illegal center where

it wouldn’t be recorded. I thought that there was a chance she might have survived, but when she didn’t contact me …” His eyes narrowed at the mer. “What else do you know?”

“I’ve told you everything,” Tharion lied, crossing his legs.

Cormac gave a slashing, mocking grin. “And what of Danika Fendyr?” Bryce stilled. “What about her?” Hunt gave her another look warning

her to keep quiet.

Cormac said, “She and Sofie knew each other. She was the one who set

up this safe place, wasn’t she?”

“You don’t know any of that for sure,” Hunt said. “I do,” Cormac said, his gaze still on Bryce, on the star in her chest that

had begun to glow dimly again. “It’s why I agreed to marry Bryce.”

Ruhn needed a moment to process everything. He watched his cousin warily.

But Bryce chuckled. “I thought you agreed to marry me because of my

winning personality.”

Cormac didn’t smile. “I agreed to marry you because I needed access to

you. And to you, cousin,” he said to Ruhn.

Athalar demanded, “You couldn’t just pay a friendly visit?” “The Avallen Fae and the Valbaran Fae are not friendly. We are allies,

but also rivals. I needed a reason to come here. I needed to come here to find Emile—it was a blessing from Urd that Ophion wanted me here for another mission, too.”

Bryce glowered. “Forcing me into marriage seems extreme.” “It’s the only currency I have. My breeding potential.” Ruhn snorted. He and his cousin had more in common than he’d

realized. “Why do you need access to me?”

“Because you can mind-speak, can you not? It’s how you and your

friends survived in the Cave of Princes during your Ordeal. You fought as if you were of one mind. You never told my father, but he suspected. I suspected. It’s a rare Starborn gift. A skill Ophion needs badly.”

Ruhn said, “What about your cousins—the twins? They can mind-

speak.”

“They’re not trustworthy. You know that.” Athalar cut in, “Don’t let him rope you into whatever this is, Danaan.

Searching for Emile independently is one thing. If you let him deliver his pitch, you’re one step away from working with Ophion. The Asteri won’t care whether you agree or reject his ass.” He leveled a look at Cormac. “And let me remind you that Ophion is going up against legions that outrank them in power and size. If one of the Asteri walks onto a battlefield, you’re all done.”

The power of one Asteri, the holy star glowing within them, could level

an entire army.

Hunt went on, “And if the Asteri catch wind that Agent Silverbow is

trying to recruit Ruhn, we’ll all be taken in for questioning. If we’re lucky.

If not, we’ll be executed.”

“You didn’t seem to have such concerns when you rebelled, Fallen

Angel,” Cormac said.

“I learned the hard way,” Hunt said through his teeth. Bryce stepped

closer to him, fingers brushing his. “I’d prefer to protect my friends from learning that lesson.”

It shouldn’t have meant something to Ruhn, for Athalar to consider him

a friend. But it did.

Hunt continued, “You’re not only insane to tell us this—you’re

reckless. We could sell you out in a heartbeat.”

Tharion added, “Or you’re an Asteri mole seeking to entrap us.” Cormac drawled, “Trust me, I don’t bandy about this information to just

anyone.” He sized up Athalar. “You might have made foolish mistakes in the past, Umbra Mortis, but I shall not.”

“Fuck you.” That one came from Bryce, her voice low and deadly.

Ruhn said to Cormac, hoping to take the temperature down a few

degrees, “I’m not going to get involved with you or Ophion. I won’t risk it.

So don’t even ask me to do whatever it is you want me to use my … mind-

stuff for.” He hated that his cousin knew. That Tharion was now watching him with a mixture of surprise, awe, and wariness.

Cormac laughed bitterly. “You can’t risk your friends and family? What

about the countless friends and family in Pangera who are tortured, enslaved, and murdered? I saw you entering this apartment earlier, and assumed you were assisting Captain Ketos in looking for Emile. I thought convincing you to help me might be that much easier. But it seems all of you wish to put your own lives before those of others.”

“Fuck off,” Hunt growled. “Did you see what happened here this

spring?”

“Yes. It convinced me of your … compassion.” He said to Bryce, “I

saw that you raced to Asphodel Meadows. To the humans.” He glanced at Ithan. “You too. I thought it meant you’d be sympathetic to their greater plight.” He again addressed Bryce. “That’s why I wanted to get near you.

You and Danika saved this city. I realized you two were close. I wanted to see if you might have any insights—I’ve long suspected that Danika might have arranged a rendezvous spot for Sofie.” He faced Tharion. “Where do you believe the meet-up point would be?”

“Nowhere good,” Tharion muttered. Then he added, “You’ll get the

details when we’re good and ready to tell you, princey.”

Cormac bristled, flames sparking in his hair again, but Bryce cut in,

“How did Danika and Sofie meet?” Apparently, Ruhn realized, this trumped everything else for his sister.

Cormac shook his head. “I’m not sure. But from what Sofie told me,

Danika suspected something about the Asteri, and needed someone to go in to confirm those suspicions. Sofie was that person.”

Bryce’s eyes were bright—churning. It didn’t bode well.

Bryce’s brows knit, though. “Danika died two years ago. Sofie had this

intel for that long?”

“No. From what I’ve gathered, three years ago, Danika needed Sofie to

go in to get it, but it took Sofie that long to gain access. Danika died before Sofie could ever pass the information to her. When she finally got it, she decided to use it to manipulate Ophion into upholding their bargain to go help rescue Emile.”

“So Danika worked for Ophion?” Ithan asked. The wolf’s face was a

portrait of shock.

“No,” Cormac said. “She was connected to them, but didn’t report to

them. As far as I understood from Sofie, Danika had her own agenda.”

Bryce watched Cormac, her head angled to the side. Ruhn knew that

look.

Bryce was planning something. Had definitely already planned

something.

Bryce stepped closer to Cormac. The padding of her bare feet was the

only sound. Ruhn braced himself for whatever was about to come out of her mouth. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Aidas is in the habit of allowing Asteri loyalists into my apartment.”

“Aidas.” Cormac started, face paling. “That cat was the Prince of the

Chasm?”

“Yep,” Bryce said. “And I think Aidas brought you here as a gift to

me.” Athalar blinked at her, but Bryce went on, “Talk all you like about tracking Tharion here, and wanting to recruit Ruhn, but don’t for one minute think that Aidas wasn’t involved in your being here at the exact moment he told me to learn about my powers.” She crossed her arms. “What do you know about the Starborn gifts?”

Cormac said nothing. And Ruhn found himself saying, half in dread that

Bryce was right, “I told you the other night that our cousin here was obsessed enough with the idea of getting the Starsword that he learned everything he could about Starborn powers. He’s a veritable library of information.”

Cormac cut him a glare. But he admitted, “I did spend … much of my

youth reading about the various gifts.”

Her lips curled upward. “Rebel prince and bookworm.” Athalar looked

at her like she’d lost her mind. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

Hunt growled his objection, but Ruhn’s mind churned. This was the

Bryce he knew—always angling for the advantage.

“No interest in helping out of the goodness of your heart, Princess?”

Cormac taunted.

“I want out of this marriage,” Bryce said smoothly, running a finger

over the counter’s edge. Ruhn pretended not to see Athalar’s shudder. “But I know that if I end our engagement too soon, my … sire will send along someone who isn’t as motivated to work with me.” Truth. “So we’ll team up with Tharion here to find Emile. And I’ll even help you find out

whatever intel it was that Danika wanted Sofie to learn. But I want this engagement ended when I say it’s time. And I want you to teach me about my magic. If not, good luck to you. I’ll be sure to point Pippa and her Lightfall unit right in your direction.”

Hunt smirked. Ruhn avoided doing the same. Tharion just tucked his

arms behind his head. Only Ithan seemed surprised. Like he’d never seen this side of Bryce.

“Fine,” Cormac said. “But the engagement will only be broken once my

work here for Ophion is done. I need the reason to be in Valbara.”

Ruhn expected Bryce to object, but she seemed to think it over. “We do

need the cover to be seen together,” she mused. “Otherwise, anyone who knows what a piece of shit you are would wonder why the Hel I would stoop to hang with you. It’d be suspicious.”

Hunt coughed into his shoulder.

Ruhn blurted, “Am I the only one here who thinks this is insane?” Ithan said, “I think we’re all dead meat for even talking about this.” But Hunt rubbed his jaw, solemn and weary. “We need to talk this over

before deciding.” Bryce’s hand brushed over his once more.

Ruhn grunted his agreement and said to his cousin, “You’ve dropped a

shit-ton of information on us. We need to process.” He gestured toward the door in dismissal. “We’ll contact you.”

Cormac didn’t move an inch. “I require your blood oath not to say a

word of this.”

Ruhn barked a laugh. “I’m not making a blood oath. You can trust us.

Can we trust you?”

“If I can trust cowards who like painting their nails while the rest of the

world suffers, then you can trust me.”

Bryce said wryly, “Going in hard with the charm, Cormac.” “Swear a blood oath. And I’ll leave.” “No,” Bryce said with surprising calm. “I have a manicure in ten

minutes.”

Cormac glowered. “I’ll require your answer tomorrow. In the meantime,

I am entrusting my life to you.” His eyes slid to Ruhn’s. “Should you wish to hear my pitch, I’ll be at the bar on Archer and Ward today. Your services would be … greatly valued.”

Ruhn said nothing. The fucker could rot.

Cormac’s eyes narrowed with cold amusement. “Your father remains

unaware of your mind-speaking gifts, doesn’t he?”

“Are you threatening me?” Ruhn snarled.

Cormac shrugged, walking toward the door. “Come meet me at the bar

and find out.”

“Asshole,” Ithan murmured.

Cormac paused with his hand on the knob. He sucked in a breath, the

powerful muscles of his back rippling. When he looked over his shoulder, the amusement and threats were gone. “Beyond Sofie, beyond Emile … This world could be so much more. This world could be free. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want that.”

“Hard to enjoy being free,” Hunt countered darkly, “if you’re dead.” Cormac opened the door, stepping into the swirling shadows. “I can

think of no better reason to yield my life.”

17

“Does anyone else feel like they’re about to wake up from a bad dream?” Ithan’s question echoed into the fraught silence of the apartment.

Bryce checked the clock on her phone. Had it really been less than an

hour since she’d walked down the teeming lunchtime streets with Ruhn?

She rubbed idly at her star, still glowing faintly, and said to no one in particular, “I need to get back to the archives.”

Ruhn exclaimed, “After all that, you’re going back to work?” But she strode across the room, throwing Hunt a glance that had him

following. He always got her like that—they didn’t need Ruhn’s fancy mind-speaking to communicate.

She halted by the front door. None of Cormac’s power lingered—not

even a wisp of shadow. Not one ember. For a heartbeat, she wished she had the serenity of Lehabah to return to, the serenity of the gallery and its quiet library.

But those things were irrevocably gone.

Bryce said as calmly as she could to the males watching her, schooling

her face into neutrality, “We just had a bomb dropped into our lives. A bomb that is now ticking away. I need to think. And I have a job that I’m contractually obligated to show up to.”

Where she could close her office door and figure out if she wanted to

run like Hel from that bomb or face its wrath.

Hunt put a hand on her shoulder, but said nothing. He’d leapt in front of

a bomb for her months ago. Had shielded her body with his own against the

brimstone missile. There was nothing he could do to shield her from this, though.

Bryce couldn’t bear to see the worry and dread she knew would be

etched on his face. He knew what they were walking into. The enemy and odds they faced.

She pivoted to Tharion instead. “What do you want to do, Tharion? Not

because the River Queen is pulling your puppet strings—what do you want?”

“This apartment, for starters,” Tharion said, leaning his head back

against the cushions, muscled chest expanding as he heaved a breath. “I want to find answers. Regardless of my orders, I want the truth of what I am facing—the enemy at my front as well as my back. But I’m inclined to believe Cormac—he didn’t display any signs of lying.”

“Trust me,” Ruhn growled, “he’s more skilled than you know.” “I don’t think he was lying, either,” Hunt admitted.

Bryce rubbed at her neck—then straightened. “Any chance that Dusk’s

Truth is somehow related to the Lightfall squadron?”

Tharion arched a brow. “Why?” Hunt picked up her thread immediately. “Lightfall. Also known as

dusk.”

“And Project Thurr … thunder god … Could it be related to the

thunderbirds?” Bryce went on.

“You think it involved some kind of intel about Pippa’s Lightfall

squadron?” Ruhn asked.

“It seemed to be some sort of groundbreaking info,” Tharion said. “And

Thurr … It could have had something to do with the thunderbird stuff. Sofie sounded afraid of the Asteri’s wrath in her reply to Danika … Maybe it was because she was afraid of them knowing she had the gift.”

“These are all hypotheticals,” Hunt said. “And big stretches. But they

might lead somewhere. Sofie and Danika were certainly well aware of the threats posed by both Lightfall and the Asteri.”

Ithan said, “Can we go back to how the Prince of the Chasm was sitting

on my lap?”

“You’ve got a lot to catch up on,” Hunt said, chuckling darkly. “Be glad

you weren’t here for the first summoning.”

Bryce elbowed him. “I really do have to return to work.”

Ruhn asked, “You don’t think we should go to the Bone Quarter to look

for Emile and Sofie?”

Bryce winced. “I’m not going to the Bone Quarter to look for anyone

unless we’re absolutely certain that they’re there.”

“Agreed,” Tharion said. “It’s too dangerous to go on a whim. We’ll

keep investigating. Maybe Danika meant something else by weary souls.”

Bryce nodded. “None of us talks to anyone else. I think we all know

we’re going to be roasted on a spit if this leaks.”

“One word from Cormac and we’re dead,” Ruhn said gravely. “One word from us,” Hunt countered, “and he’s dead.” He jerked his

chin at Bryce. She finally met his stare, finding only razor-sharp calculation there. “Grab a gun.”

Bryce scowled. “Absolutely not.” She gestured to her tight dress.

“Where would I hide it?”

“Then take the sword.” He pointed to her bedroom hallway. “Use it as

some sort of accessory. If anyone can pull it off, you can.”

Bryce couldn’t help her glance at Ithan. It gave away everything. “You never gave Danika’s sword back after the attack this spring?” the

wolf asked a shade quietly.

“Sabine can fight me for it,” Bryce said, and ignored Hunt’s order to

take the blade from its resting place in her closet. Bryce twisted the knob. “Let’s take the day. Agree not to fuck each other over on this, pray Cormac isn’t a lying sack of shit, and then reconvene tomorrow night.”

“Done,” Tharion said.

Bryce stepped into the hall, Hunt on her heels, and heard Ithan sigh

behind her. “This was not how I expected my day to go,” the wolf muttered to Tharion before ratcheting up the volume on the TV.

Same, Bryce thought, and shut the door.

Hunt’s head spun as he and Bryce rode the elevator down to the apartment lobby. He’d been free for a few glorious months, only to wind up right back on the cusp of another rebellion.

The same war, Aidas had claimed. Just by a different name, with a

different army. Hunt’s hands slicked with sweat. He’d seen how this war turned out. Felt its cost for centuries.

He said to Bryce, unable to stop the trembling that now overtook him,

the sense that the elevator walls were pushing in, “I don’t know what to do.”

She leaned against the rail. “Me neither.” They waited until they were out on the street, keeping their voices

down, before Hunt continued, words falling out of his mouth, “This isn’t something we can jump into for the Hel of it.” He couldn’t get a breath down. “I’ve seen wrecked mech-suits with their human pilots hanging out of the cockpit, organs dangling. I’ve seen wolves as strong as Ithan ripped in two. I’ve seen angels decimate battlefields without setting foot on the ground.” He shuddered, picturing Bryce among all that. “I … Fuck.”

She looped her arm through his, and he leaned into her warmth, finding

himself frozen despite the hot day. “This sounds more like … spying than battle-fighting or whatever.”

“I’d rather die on the battlefield than in one of the Hind’s interrogation

rooms.” I’d rather you die on a battlefield than in her hands. Hunt swallowed. “Sofie was lucky that the Hind dumped her and was done with it.” He halted at an alley, tugging Bryce into its shadows with him.

He let himself look at her face: pale enough that her freckles stood out,

eyes wide. Scared. The scent hit him a moment later.

“We were never going to be allowed to live like normal people,” Bryce

breathed, and Hunt ran a hand through her hair, savoring the silken strands. “Trouble was always going to come find us.”

He knew she was right. They weren’t the sort of people who could live

ordinary lives. Hunt fought past the shaking in his bones, the roaring in his mind.

She lifted a hand, and her warm palm cupped his cheek. He leaned into

her touch, reining in a purr as her thumb brushed over his cheekbone. “You really don’t think Cormac is luring us into a trap with this claim that Sofie knew some vital intel—the bait being that Danika was involved in some way?”

“It’s possible,” Hunt admitted. “But there was clearly a connection

between Danika and Sofie—the emails prove it. And Cormac seemed pretty damned shocked to learn that Sofie was potentially alive. I think he believed the intel on the Asteri had died with Sofie. I wouldn’t blame him for wondering if it could be in play once more.”

“You think there’s any chance Sofie told Emile before they were

separated?”

Hunt shrugged. “They were in Kavalla together—she might have found

an opportunity to tell him. And if he doesn’t have the intel, and Sofie is alive, he might know where Sofie is headed right now. That makes Emile a pretty valuable asset. For everyone.”

Bryce began counting on her fingers. “So we’ve got Ophion, Tharion,

and Cormac all wanting to find him.”

“If you want to find him, too, Bryce, then we need to navigate carefully.

Consider if we really want to get involved at all.”

Her mouth twisted to the side. “If there’s a chance that we could

discover what Sofie knew, what Danika guessed—separate from Cormac, from this shit with that Pippa woman and whatever the River Queen wants —I think that intel is worth the risk.”

“But why? So we can keep the Asteri from fucking with us about Micah

and Sandriel?”

“Yeah. When I met up with Fury this morning, she mentioned that

Danika knew something dangerous about her, so Fury learned something big about Danika in return.” Hunt didn’t get the chance to ask what exactly that was before Bryce said, “Why not apply the same thinking to this? The Asteri know something dangerous about me. About you.” That they’d killed two Archangels. “I want to even the playing field a bit.” Hunt could have sworn her expression was one he’d glimpsed on the Autumn King’s face as she went on, “So we’ll learn something vital about them. We’ll take steps to ensure that if they fuck with us, the information will leak to the broader world.”

“This is a deadly game. I’m not convinced the Asteri will want to play.” “I know. But beyond that, Danika thought this intel might be important

enough to send Sofie after it—to risk her life for it. If Sofie is dead, then someone else needs to secure that information.”

“It’s not your responsibility, Bryce.” “It is.” He wasn’t going to touch that one. Not yet. “And what about the kid?” “We find him, too. I don’t give a shit if he’s powerful—he’s a kid and

he’s caught up in this giant mess.” Her eyes softened, and his heart with them. Would Shahar have cared about the boy? Only in the way Ophion and

the River Queen seemed to: as a weapon. Bryce asked, head tilting to the side, “And what about Cormac’s talk of freeing the world from the Asteri?

That doesn’t hold any weight with you?”

“Of course it does.” He slid a hand over her waist, tugging her closer.

“A world without them, without the Archangels and the hierarchies … I’d like to see that world one day. But …” His throat dried up. “But I don’t want to live in that world if the risk of creating it means …” Get it out. “If it means that we might not make it to that world.”

Her eyes softened once more, and her thumb stroked over his cheek

again. “Same, Athalar.”

He huffed a laugh, bowing his head, but she lifted his chin with her

other hand. His fingers tightened on her waist.

Bryce’s whiskey-colored eyes glowed in the muted light of the alley.

“Well, since we’re dabbling in some seriously dangerous shit, now’s probably as good a time as any to admit I don’t want to wait until Winter Solstice.”

“For what?” Fuck, his voice had dropped an octave. “This,” she murmured, and rose onto her toes to kiss him.

Hunt met her halfway, unable to contain his groan as he hauled her

against him, lips finding hers at the same moment their bodies touched. He could have sworn the fucking world spun out from under him at the taste of her—

His head filled with fire and lightning and storms, and all he could think

of was her mouth, her warm, luscious body, the aching of his cock pressing against his pants—pressing against her as her arms twined around his neck.

He was going to kick that wolf out of the apartment immediately.

Hunt twisted, pinning her against the wall, and her mouth opened wider

on a gasp. He swept his tongue in, tasting the honeyed spice that was pure Bryce. She wrapped a leg around his waist, and Hunt took the invitation, hefting her thigh higher, pressing himself against her until they were both writhing.

Anyone might walk by the alley and see them. Lunchtime workers were

streaming past. All it would take was one peek down the alley into the dusty shadows, one photograph, and this whole thing—

Hunt halted.

One photo, and her engagement to Cormac would be off. Along with

the bargain Bryce had crafted with him.

Bryce asked, panting hard, “What’s wrong?” “We, ah …” Words had become foreign. All thought had gone between

his legs. Between her legs.

He swallowed hard, then gently backed away, trying to master his

jagged breathing. “You’re engaged. Technically. You have to keep up that ruse with Cormac, at least in public.”

She straightened her dress, and—shit. Was that a lilac lace bra peeking

out from the neckline? Why the fuck hadn’t he explored that just now?

Bryce peered down the alley, lips swollen from his kisses, and some feral part of him howled in satisfaction to see that he had done that, he had brought that flush to her cheeks and wine-rich scent of arousal to her. She was his.

And he was hers. Utterly fucking hers. “Are you suggesting we find a seedy motel instead?” Her lips curved,

and Hunt’s cock throbbed at the sight, as if begging for her mouth to slide over him.

He let out a strangled noise. “I’m suggesting …” Hel, what was he

suggesting? “I don’t know.” He blew out a breath. “You’re sure you want to do this now?” He gestured between them. “I know emotions are high after what we’ve learned. I …” He couldn’t look at her. “Whatever you want, Quinlan. That’s what I mean to say.”

She was silent for a moment. Then her hand slid over his chest, landing

upon his heart. “What do you want? Why is it only what I want?”

“Because you were the one who mentioned waiting until solstice.” “And?” “And I want to make sure that you’re fully on board with ending our …

agreement.”

“All right. But I also want to know what you want, Hunt.” He met her golden stare. “You know what I want.” He couldn’t stop his

voice from lowering again. “I’ve never stopped wanting it—wanting you. I thought it was obvious.”

Her heart was thundering. He could hear it. He glanced down at her

ample chest and beheld a faint glimmering. “Your star …”

“Let’s not even get started on this thing,” she said, waving a hand at it.

“Let’s keep talking about how much you want me.” She winked.

Hunt slung an arm around her shoulders, steering her back toward the

bustling avenue. He whispered in her ear, “Why don’t I just show you later?”

She laughed, the star’s glow fading in the sunlight as they emerged onto

the baking streets, and she slipped on her sunglasses and hat. “That’s what I want, Hunt. That is definitely what I want.”

18

Ithan rubbed at his face. This day had gotten … complicated.

“You look like you need a drink,” Tharion said as he strode to the

apartment door. Ruhn had left a moment ago. Ithan supposed he’d sit on his ass for a good few hours and contemplate the epic mess he’d somehow landed in the middle of. That Bryce seemed intent on involving herself in.

“How long have you guys been doing all this shit?” “You know what happened during the Summit, right?” “Demons wrecked the city, killed a lot of people. Two Archangels died.

Everyone knows that.”

Tharion’s brows rose. “You ever learn how Micah and Sandriel died?” Ithan blinked, bracing himself.

Tharion’s expression was dead serious. “I am telling you this after I

received a personal phone call from Rigelus three months ago, telling me to keep my mouth shut or I’d be killed, my parents with me. But as everything I’m doing these days seems to point toward that road anyway—you might as well know the truth, too. Since you’ll likely wind up dead with us.”

“Fantastic.” Ithan wished Perry had dumped him anywhere but this

apartment.

Tharion said, “Hunt ripped Sandriel’s head from her shoulders after the

Archangel threatened Bryce.”

Ithan started. He’d known Athalar was intense as shit, but killing an

Archangel—

“And Bryce slaughtered Micah after he bragged about killing Danika

and the Pack of Devils.”

Ithan’s body went numb. “I …” He couldn’t get a breath down. “Micah

… what?”

By the time Tharion finished explaining, Ithan was shaking. “Why

didn’t she tell me?” That packless wolf inside him was howling with rage and pain.

Fuck, Sabine had no idea Micah had killed her daughter. Or … wait.

Sabine did know. Sabine and Amelie had both been at the Summit, along with the Prime. They’d witnessed through the feeds what Tharion had just described.

And … and hadn’t told him. The rest of the Den, fine, but Connor was

his brother. The urge to shift, to bellow and roar, filled his blood, trembling along his bones. He suppressed it.

Tharion went on, unaware of the animal within trying to claw free. “The

Asteri have made it clear to Bryce and Athalar: one word to anyone, and they’re dead. The only reason they’re not dead yet is because they’ve played nicely this summer.”

Claws appeared at Ithan’s fingertips. Tharion didn’t fail to note them.

Through a mouth full of lengthening fangs, Ithan growled, “Micah

killed my brother. And Bryce killed Micah because of it.” He couldn’t wrap his mind around it—that Bryce, before the Drop, had destroyed an Archangel.

It made no sense.

He’d had the audacity, the ignorance, to question her love for Danika

and Connor. His claws and fangs retracted. That wolf inside ceased baying.

Ithan rubbed at his face again, shame an oily river through him that

drowned that wolf inside his skin. “I need some time to process this.” The wolf he used to be would have run to the sunball field to practice until he became nothing but breath and sweat and the thoughts sorted themselves out. But he hadn’t set foot on one of those fields in two years. He wasn’t going to start now.

Tharion headed for the door again. “I’m sure you do, but a word of

advice: don’t take too long. Urd works in strange ways, and I don’t think it was a coincidence that you were brought here right as this shit started.”

“So I’m supposed to go along with it on some hunch that fate is

nudging me?”

“Maybe,” the mer answered. He shrugged his powerful shoulders,

honed from a lifetime of swimming. “But whenever you’re tired of sitting on the couch feeling sorry for yourself, come find me. I could use a wolf’s sense of smell.”

“For what?” Tharion’s face turned grave. “I need to find Emile before Pippa Spetsos.

Or Cormac.”

The mer left him with that. For a long moment, Ithan sat in silence.

Had Connor known anything about Danika’s involvement with Sofie

Renast? Had Sabine? He doubted it, but … At least Bryce had been as much in the dark about this as he was.

Bryce, who had used Danika’s sword during the attack on this city, and

kept it ever since. Ithan glanced to the door.

He moved before he could second-guess the wisdom and morality of it,

going right to the coat closet. Umbrellas, boxes of crap … nothing. The linen closet and the laundry closet didn’t reveal anything, either.

Which left … He winced as he entered her bedroom.

He didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it the other night. Well, he’d been

beaten to Hel and back, so that was excuse enough, but … the sword leaned against the chair beside her tall dresser, as if she’d left it there for decoration.

Ithan’s mouth dried out, but he stalked for the ancient blade. Gifted to

Danika by the Prime—an act that had infuriated Sabine, who’d long expected to inherit the family weapon.

He could still hear Sabine raging in the weeks after Danika’s death,

trying to find where Danika had left the sword. She’d practically torn that old apartment to pieces to find it. Ithan had thought it lost until he saw Bryce brandishing it this spring.

Breath tight in his chest, Ithan picked up the blade. It was light but

perfectly balanced. He drew it from the sheath, the metal shining in the dim light.

Damn, it was gorgeous. Simple, yet impeccably made.

He blew out a long breath, chasing away the clinging cobwebs of

memories—Danika carrying this sword everywhere, wielding it in practice, the blade somehow validation that even if Sabine sucked, with Danika, they had a bright future, with Danika, the wolves would become more—

He couldn’t help it. He took up a defensive stance and swung the blade.

Yeah, it was perfect. A remarkable feat of craftsmanship.

Ithan pivoted, feinting and then striking at an invisible opponent.

Sabine would lose her shit if she knew he was messing around with the blade. Whatever.

Ithan struck again at the shadows, shuddering at the beautiful song of

the sword slicing through the air. And … what the Hel: he’d had a weird fucking morning. He needed to burn off some tension.

Lunging and parrying, leaping and rolling, Ithan sparred against an

invisible enemy.

Maybe he’d gone crazy. Maybe this was what happened to wolves

without a pack.

The sword was an extension of his arm, he thought. He slid over the

glass dining table, taking on two, three, ten opponents—

Holstrom blocks; Holstrom presses— Moving through the apartment, Ithan leapt up onto the coffee table in

front of the sectional, wood shuddering beneath him, the narration loud and precise in his head. Holstrom delivers the killing blow!

He swiped the sword down in a triumphant arc.

The front door opened.

Bryce stared at him. Standing on the coffee table with Danika’s sword. “I forgot my work ID …?” Bryce started, brows so high they seemed

capable of touching her hairline. Ithan prayed Solas would melt him into the floor and boil his blood into steam.

It seemed the sun god was listening. The coffee table groaned. Then

cracked.

And collapsed entirely beneath him.

Ithan might have continued to lie there, hoping some Reaper would

come suck the soul from his body, had Bryce not rushed over. Not to him— not to help him up. But to investigate something just beyond his line of sight.

“What the Hel is this?” she asked, kneeling.

Ithan managed to move his ass off the debris, lifting his head to see her

crouching over a stack of papers. “Was there a drawer in the table?”

“No. There must have been a secret compartment.” Bryce flicked

splinters of wood from the half-scattered pile. “This table was here when I

moved in—all the furniture was Danika’s.” She lifted her gaze to him. “Why would she hide her old college papers in here?”

Ruhn held the Starsword to the grindstone. Black, iridescent sparks flew from the blade’s edge. Behind him in the otherwise empty Aux armory, Flynn and Declan cleaned their array of guns at a worktable.

He’d planned to meet them here this afternoon. Had intended to hone

the sword, clean and inspect his guns, and then cap the day off with a City Head meeting to discuss the new Archangel.

A normal day, in other words. Except for the colossal, life-threatening

shit that had just gone down. Incredibly, the Prince of the Chasm was the least of his problems.

“Out with it,” Flynn said without halting work on his handgun. “What?” Ruhn asked, pulling the blade away.

Declan answered, “Whatever has kept you standing there in silence for

ten minutes, not even complaining about Flynn’s shitty playlist.”

“Asshole,” Flynn said to Dec, nodding toward where his phone blasted

heavy metal. “This stuff is poetry.”

“They’ve done studies where plants wither up and die when exposed to

this music,” Declan countered. “Which is precisely how I feel right now.”

Flynn chuckled. “I’m guessing you’re brooding about one of three

things: horrible daddy, baby sister, or pretty fiancée.”

“None of them, dickhead,” Ruhn said, slumping into the chair across

the table from them. He glanced to the doors, listening. When he was assured no one occupied the hall beyond, he said, “My lunch hour began with finding the Prince of the Chasm in feline form at Bryce’s apartment, where he revealed that Cormac is an Ophion rebel, and it ended with learning that Cormac is on the hunt for a missing kid and the kid’s spy sister. Who happens to be Cormac’s girlfriend. And he’s basically threatened to tell my father about my mind-speaking gifts if I don’t meet him at some bar to hear his pitch for how I can be of use to Ophion.”

His friends gaped. Declan said carefully, “Is everyone … alive?” “Yes,” Ruhn said, sighing. “I was sworn to secrecy, but …” “So long as you didn’t swear a blood oath, who cares?” Flynn said, gun

forgotten on the table beside him.

“Trust me, Cormac tried. I refused.” “Good,” Dec said. “Tell us everything.” They were the only two people in the world Ruhn would trust with this

knowledge. Bryce—and Hunt—would kick his ass for saying anything, but too fucking bad. They had each other to vent to. So Ruhn opened his mouth and explained.

“And … that’s where I’m at,” Ruhn finished, toying with the ring

through his lip.

Flynn rubbed his hands together. “This should be exciting.” He was

totally serious. Ruhn gawked at him.

But Declan was eyeing him thoughtfully. “I once hacked into an

imperial military database and saw the uncensored footage from the battlefields and camps.” Even Flynn’s smile vanished. Declan went on, red hair gleaming in the firstlights, “It made me sick. I dreamed about it for weeks afterward.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ruhn asked. “Because there was nothing to be done about it. It seemed that way, at

least.” Declan nodded, as if to himself. “Whatever you need, I’m in.”

“That easy, huh?” Ruhn said, brows lifting. “That easy,” Dec answered.

Ruhn had to take a moment. He had no idea what god he’d pleased

enough to warrant being blessed with such friends. They were more than friends. They were his brothers. Ruhn finally said hoarsely, “We get caught, and we’re dead. Our families with us.” He added to Dec, “And Marc.”

“Trust me, Marc would be the first one to say Hel yes to this. He hates

the Asteri.” Dec’s smile turned subdued. “But … yeah, I think it’s safer if he doesn’t know.” He frowned at Flynn. “Can you keep quiet?”

Flynn made an outraged sound. “You talk when you’re wasted,” Ruhn chimed in. But he knew Flynn

was a steel vault when he wanted to be.

Declan’s voice deepened into a ridiculous mockery of Flynn as he said,

“Oh, sexy nymph-writer, look at your boobs, they’re so round, they remind me of these bombs the Aux is hiding in their armory in case of—”

“That was not what fucking happened!” Flynn hissed. “She was a

reporter, first of all—”

“And it was twenty years ago,” Ruhn cut him off before this could

descend into further insanity. “I think you learned your lesson.”

Flynn glowered. “So what now? You’re going to go meet Cormac and

hear him out?”

Ruhn blew out a breath and began cleaning the sword in earnest. Bryce

was going to go ballistic. “I don’t see how I have any other choice.”

19

“What the fuck is this?” Bryce whispered as she knelt in the ruins of her coffee table and leafed through the stack of papers that had apparently been hidden inside.

“It’s not only college papers,” Ithan said, fanning out the pages beside

her. “These are documents and images of newspaper clippings.” He peered at them. “They all seem like they’re regarding firstlight’s uses—mostly how it was made into weapons.”

Bryce’s hands shook. She sifted through a few academic articles—all

full of redactions—theorizing on the origin of worlds and what the Asteri even were.

“She never mentioned any of this,” Bryce said. “Think this is what Sofie Renast discovered?” he asked. “Like, maybe

Danika sniffed something out about the Asteri with her …” He trailed off, then added, “Gifts?”

Bryce lifted her gaze to his carefully neutral face as he tried to recover

from a stumble. “You knew about her bloodhound gift?”

Ithan shifted on his knees. “It wasn’t ever talked about, but … yeah.

Connor and I knew.”

Bryce flipped another page, tucking that factoid away. “Well, why

would it even matter if Danika had sniffed out something regarding the Asteri? They’re holy stars.” Beings that possessed the force of an entire star within them, unaging and undying.

But as Bryce skimmed article after article, Ithan doing the same beside

her, she began to see that they challenged that fact. She made herself keep

breathing steadily. Danika had been a history major at CCU. None of this stuff was out of the ordinary—except that it had been hidden. Here.

All we have as proof of their so-called sacred power is their word,

Bryce read. Who has ever seen such a star manifest itself? If they are stars from the heavens, then they are fallen stars.

A chill ran down Bryce’s spine, one hand drifting to her chest. She had

a star within her. Well, starlight that manifested as a star-shaped thing, but … What was the Asteri’s power, then? The sun was a star—did they possess the power of an actual sun?

If so, this rebellion was fucked. Maybe Danika had wondered about it,

and wanted Sofie to verify it somehow. Maybe that was what the intel was about, what Danika had suspected and dreaded and needed to officially confirm: there was no way to win. Ever.

Bryce wished Hunt were here, but she didn’t dare call him with this

info. Though after what had happened between them in the alley during lunch, maybe it was good they weren’t in close quarters. She didn’t trust herself to keep her hands off him.

Because gods-damn. That kiss. She hadn’t hesitated. Had seen Hunt,

that usually unflappable exterior melting away, and … she’d needed to kiss him.

The problem was that now she needed more. It was unfortunate that

Ithan was staying with her, and the kind of sex she planned to have with Hunt would rattle the walls.

But … Urd must have sent her back to the apartment just now. For this.

She exhaled. Ran a hand over the pages. The final papers in the pile made Bryce’s breath catch.

“What is it?” Ithan asked.

Bryce shook her head, angling slightly away from him to read the text

again.

Dusk’s Truth.

The same project that had been mentioned in the emails between Sofie

and Danika. That Danika had said would be of interest to Sofie. Danika had been digging into it since college? Bryce inhaled and turned to the next page.

It was completely blank. Like Danika had never gotten to writing down

any notes about it.

“Dusk’s Truth was one of the things that Danika mentioned to Sofie,”

Bryce said quietly. “Dusk’s Truth and Project Thurr.”

“What is it?” She shook her head again. “I don’t know. But there has to be a

connection between all of it.” She tossed the Dusk’s Truth document back onto the pile.

Ithan asked, “So what now?” She sighed. “I gotta get back to work.” He arched a brow in question. “Job, remember?” She got to her feet. “Maybe, um … find someplace

to hide this stuff? And don’t play Warrior Hero anymore. I liked that coffee table.”

Ithan flushed. “I wasn’t playing Warrior Hero,” he muttered.

Bryce snickered and grabbed her ID from where she’d left it hanging

beside the door, but then she sobered. “You looked good wielding it, Ithan.”

“I was just screwing around.” His tone was tense enough that she didn’t

say anything more before leaving.

Ruhn found Cormac at the pool hall in FiRo, losing to a satyr, an old rock song crackling from the jukebox on the other side of the concrete-lined space.

Cormac said, focusing on his shot, “I’d never tell your father, by the

way.”

“And yet here I am,” Ruhn said. The satyr noted the expression on

Ruhn’s face and made himself scarce. “Seems like your threat worked.”

“Desperate times,” Cormac muttered.

Ruhn grabbed the cue the satyr had discarded, eyeing the pool table. He

spotted the satyr’s next shot immediately and smirked. “He was probably going to kick your ass.”

Cormac again assessed his shot. “I was letting him win. It was the

princely thing to do.”

Balls cracked, and Ruhn chuckled as they scattered. None found a

pocket.

“Sure,” Ruhn said, aligning the cue ball. Two balls found their homes

with a satisfying plink.

Cormac swore softly. “I have a feeling this is more your element than

mine.”

“Guilty.” “You seem like a male who spends his time in places like this.” “As opposed to …?” “Doing things.” “I head up the Aux. It’s not like I squat in dives all day.” Ruhn looked

pointedly around the bar.

“That party suggested otherwise.” “We like to enjoy ourselves here in sunny Lunathion.” Cormac snorted. “Apparently.” He watched Ruhn pocket another ball,

then blow his second shot by an inch. “You have more piercings since the last time I saw you. And more ink. Things must be dull around here if that’s what you spend your time on.”

“All right,” Ruhn said, leaning against his cue. “You’re a brooding hero

and I’m a lazy asshole. Is that really how you want to start your pitch?”

Cormac made his move, one of the balls finally sinking into a pocket.

But his second shot missed, leaving the angle Ruhn needed completely open. “Hear me out, cousin. That’s all I ask.”

“Fine.” Ruhn took his shot. “Let’s hear it.” His voice was barely more

than a whisper.

Cormac leaned against his cue and studied the empty bar before saying,

“Sofie was in contact with our most vital spy in the rebellion—Agent Daybright.”

Unease wended through Ruhn. He really, really didn’t want to know

this.

Cormac went on, “Daybright has direct access to the Asteri—Ophion

has long wondered whether Daybright is one of the Asteri themselves.

Daybright and Sofie used codes on crystal-fueled radios to pass along messages. But with Sofie’s … disappearance, it’s become too dangerous to keep using the old methods of communicating. The fact that the Hind was able to be on the scene so quickly that night indicates that someone might have intercepted those messages and broken our codes. We need someone who can mind-speak to be in direct contact with Agent Daybright.”

“And why the fuck would I ever agree to work with you?” Beyond the

threat of Cormac telling his father about his talents.

The mind-speaking was a rare gift of the Avallen Fae, inherited from his

mother’s bloodline, and had always come naturally to him. He’d been four the first time he’d done it—he’d asked his mother for a sandwich. She’d screamed when she’d heard him in her mind, and in that moment, he’d known that the gift was something to hide, to keep secret. When she’d rubbed her head, clearly wondering if she’d imagined things, he’d kept quiet. And made sure she had no reason to bring him to his father, who he knew, even then, would have questioned and examined him and never let him go. Ruhn hadn’t made that mistake again.

He wouldn’t let his father control this piece of him, too. And even if

Cormac had sworn he wouldn’t reveal it … he’d be stupid to believe his cousin.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Cormac said. “I’ve seen those death

camps. Seen what’s left of the people who survive. The children who survive. It can’t be allowed to go on.”

Ruhn said, “The prison camps are nothing new. Why act now?” “Because Daybright came along and started feeding us vital information

that has led to successful strikes on supply lines, missions, encampments.

Now that we have someone in the upper echelons of the Asteri’s rule, it changes everything. The information Daybright would pass to you can save thousands of lives.”

“And take them,” Ruhn said darkly. “Did you tell Command about

me?”

“No,” Cormac said earnestly. “I only mentioned that I had a contact in

Lunathion who might be useful in reestablishing our connection with Daybright, and was sent here.”

Ruhn couldn’t fault him for trying. While he couldn’t read thoughts or

invade people’s unguarded minds as some of his cousins could, he’d learned that he could talk to people on a sort of psychic bridge, as if his mind had formed it brick by brick between souls. It was perfect for a spy network.

But Ruhn asked, “And it was coincidence that it happened to line up

with Emile coming here, too?”

A slight smile. “Two birds, one stone. I needed a reason to be here, to

cover for my hunt for him. Seeking out your gifts offered that to Ophion. As does my engagement to your sister.”

Ruhn frowned. “So you’re asking me to what—help out this one time?

Or for the rest of my fucking life?”

“I’m asking you, Ruhn, to pick up where Sofie left off. How long you

decide to work with us is up to you. But right now, Ophion is desperate for Daybright’s information. People’s lives depend on it. Daybright has alerted us three times now before an imperial attack on one of our bases. Those warnings saved thousands of lives. We need you for the next few months— or at least until we’ve attained the intel that Sofie knew.”

“I don’t see how I have any choice but to say yes.” “I told you—I won’t tell your father. I just needed to get you here. To

get you to listen. I wouldn’t ask this of you unless it was necessary.”

“How’d you even get caught up in all this rebel business?” Cormac’s

life had been pretty cushy, as far as Ruhn could tell. But he supposed that to an outsider, his own life looked the same.

Cormac weighed the cue in his hands. “It’s a long story. I linked up with

them about four years ago.”

“And what’s your title with Ophion, exactly?” “Field agent. Technically, I’m a field commander of the northwestern

Pangeran spy network.” He exhaled slowly. “Sofie was one of my agents.”

“But now you’re trying to keep Emile away from Ophion? Having

doubts about the cause?”

“Never about the cause,” Cormac said quietly. “Only about the people

in it. After the heavy hits to the bases this year, Ophion has about ten thousand members left, controlled by a team of twenty in Command. Most of them are humans, but some are Vanir. Any Vanir affiliated with Ophion, Command or not, are sworn to secrecy, perhaps to stricter standards than the humans.”

Ruhn angled his head and asked baldly, “How do you know you can

trust me?”

“Because your sister put a bullet through the head of an Archangel and

you’ve all kept quiet about it.”

Ruhn nodded toward a pocket, but missed his final shot. Yet he said

calmly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cormac laughed softly. “Really? My father’s spies learned of it before

the Asteri shut the information down.”

“Then why treat her like some party girl?”

“Because she went back to partying after what happened last spring.” “So did I.” But they were getting off topic. “What do you know about

Agent Daybright?”

“As much as you do.” Cormac’s ball went wide by an embarrassing

margin.

“How do I make contact? And what’s the process after I receive

information?”

“You pass it to me. I know where to send it in Command.” “And again, I’m supposed to simply … trust you.” “I’ve trusted you with information that could land me in the Asteri’s

cells.”

Not just any prison. For this kind of thing, for someone of Cormac’s

rank—Ruhn’s rank—it’d be the notorious dungeons beneath the Asteri’s crystal palace. A place so awful, so brutal, that rumor claimed there were no cameras. No record, no proof of atrocities. Except for rare witnesses and survivors like Athalar.

Ruhn again lined up his final shot and called the pocket, but paused

before making it. “So how do I do it? Cast my mind into oblivion and hope someone answers?”

Cormac chuckled, swearing again as Ruhn sank his last ball. Ruhn

wordlessly grabbed the wooden triangle and began to rerack the balls.

Ruhn broke the balls with a thunderous crack, starting the next round.

The three and seven balls landed in opposite pockets—solids, then.

Cormac pulled a small quartz crystal from his pocket and tossed it to

Ruhn. “It’s all hypothetical right now, given that we’ve never worked with someone like you. But first try to contact Daybright by holding this.

Daybright has the sister to this comm-crystal. It possesses the same communicative properties as the Gates in this city.”

The comm-crystal was warm against Ruhn’s skin as he pocketed it.

“How does it work?”

“That’s how our radios reached Daybright. Seven crystals all hewn

from one rock—six in radios in our possession, the seventh in Daybright’s radio. They’re beacons—on the same precise frequency. Always desiring to connect into one whole again. This crystal is the last one that remains of our six. The other five were destroyed for safety. I’m hoping that if someone with your powers holds it in your hand, it might link you with Daybright

when you cast your mind out. The same way the Gates here can send audio between them.”

Cormac’s gaze had gone hazy—pained. And Ruhn found himself

asking, “Is this crystal from Sofie’s radio?”

“Yes.” Cormac’s voice thickened. “She gave it to Command before she

went into Kavalla. They gave it to me when I mentioned I might know someone who could use it.”

Ruhn weighed the grief, the pain in his cousin’s face before he softened

his tone. “Sofie sounds like a remarkable person.”

“She was. Is.” Cormac’s throat bobbed. “I need to find her. And Emile.” “You love her?” Cormac’s eyes burned with flame. “I don’t try to delude myself into

thinking that my father would ever approve of a union with a part-human— especially one with no fortune or name. But yes. I was hoping to find a way to spend my life with her.”

“You really think she’s here, trying to meet up with Emile?” “The mer didn’t rule it out. Why should I?” Again those walls rose in

Cormac’s eyes. “If your sister knows anything about whether Danika found a hiding place for them, I need to know.”

Ruhn noted the faint hint of desperation—of dread and panic—and

decided to put his cousin out of his misery. “We suspect Danika might have told Sofie to lie low in the Bone Quarter,” he said.

Alarm flared across Cormac’s face, but he nodded his gratitude to

Ruhn. “Then we will need to find a way to secure safe passage there—and find some way to search unseen and undisturbed.”

Well, Ruhn needed a drink. Thank Urd they were already in a bar. “All

right.” He surveyed his cousin, the perfect blond hair and handsome face. “For what it’s worth, if we can find Sofie, I think you should marry her, if she feels the same way about you. Don’t let your father tie you into some betrothal you don’t want.”

Cormac didn’t smile. He observed Ruhn with the same clear-eyed

scrutiny and said, “The witch-queen Hypaxia is beautiful and wise. You could do far worse, you know.”

“I know.” That was as much as Ruhn would say about it.

She was beautiful. Stunningly, distractingly beautiful. But she had zero

interest in him. She’d made that clear in the months after the Summit. He

didn’t entirely blame her. Even if he’d had a glimpse of what life might have been like with her. Like peering through a keyhole.

Cormac cleared his throat. “When you connect with Daybright, say this

to confirm your identity.”

As his cousin rattled off the code phrases, Ruhn made shot after shot,

until only two balls remained and he blew an easy one and scratched the cue ball to give his cousin a chance. He didn’t know why he bothered.

Cormac handed the cue ball back to him. “I don’t want a pity win.” Ruhn rolled his eyes but took the ball back, making another shot. “Is

there any intel I should be asking Daybright about?”

“For months now, we’ve been trying to coordinate a hit on the Spine.

Daybright is our main source of information regarding when and where to strike.”

The Spine—the north-south railway that cut Pangera in half. The main

artery for supplies in this war.

“Why risk the hit?” Ruhn asked. “To disrupt the supply lines?” “That, and Daybright’s been getting whispers for months now about the

Asteri working on some sort of new mech-suit prototype.”

“Different from the mech-suits the humans use?” “Yes. This is a mech-suit designed for Vanir to pilot. For the imperial

armies.”

“Fuck.” He could only imagine how dangerous they’d be. “Exactly,” Cormac said. He checked his watch. “I need to head toward

the Black Dock—I want to know if there’s any hint that Emile or Sofie have been there. But contact Daybright as soon as you can. We need to intercept the Vanir suit prototype to study its technology before it can be used to slaughter us.”

Ruhn nodded, resigned. “All right. I’ll help you.” “Your friends will not be pleased. Athalar in particular.” “Leave Athalar to me.” He didn’t answer to the angel. Though his sister

…

Cormac observed him once more. “When you want out, I’ll get you out.

I promise.”

Ruhn sank his last ball into his chosen pocket and leaned the stick

against the concrete wall. “I’ll hold you to that.”

20

The water dripping from Tharion’s wave skimmer onto the plastic floor of the dry dock in the Blue Court was the only sound as he repaired the vehicle. His sweat dripped along with it, despite the chamber’s cool temperature. He’d stripped off his shirt within minutes of arriving here, even its soft cotton too confining against his skin as he worked. Reeds had gotten stuck in the engine during his trip out to the marshes the other day, and though the engineering team could have easily fixed the issue, he’d wanted to do it himself.

Wanted to give his mind some time to sort everything out.

When he’d awoken that morning, talking to the Prince of the Chasm—

pretending to be a cat, for Urd’s sake—hadn’t been remotely near the list of possibilities for his day. Nor had finding out that an Avallen prince was an Ophion rebel searching for Sofie Renast’s younger brother. Or that Danika Fendyr had sent Sofie to gather some vital intel on the Asteri. No, he’d awoken with only one goal: learn what Ithan Holstrom knew.

A whole lot of nothing, apparently.

Some Captain of Intelligence. Captain Whatever, Holstrom had called

him. Tharion was half-inclined to get it etched into a plaque for his desk.

But at least Holstrom had agreed to help out should Tharion need his

nose to find the kid. If Pippa Spetsos was hunting for Emile as Cormac had claimed, politics and Sofie and his queen aside … they needed to find the kid first. If only to spare him from being forced to use those thunderbird powers in horrible ways. Holstrom would be a valuable asset in that endeavor.

And besides—the wolf seemed like he needed something to do.

The door to the dry dock room whooshed open, ushering in a scent of

bubbling streams and water lilies. Tharion kept his attention on the engine, the wrench clenched in his hand.

“I heard you were here,” said a lilting female voice, and Tharion

plastered a smile on his face as he looked over a shoulder at the River Queen’s daughter.

She wore her usual diaphanous pale blue gown, offsetting the warm

brown of her skin. River pearls and shards of abalone gleamed in her thick black curls, cascading well past her slim shoulders to the small of her back.

She glided toward him on bare feet, the chill water coating the floor seemingly not bothering her at all. She always moved like that: as if she were floating underwater. She had no mer form—was only a fraction mer,

actually. She was some kind of elemental humanoid, as at home in the open air as she was beneath the surface. Part woman, part river.

Tharion held up his wrench, a strip of river weed tangled around the tip.

“Repairs.”

“Why do you still insist on doing them yourself?” “Gives me a tangible task.” He leaned against the wave skimmer on the

lift behind him, the water beading its sides cool against his hot skin.

“Is your work for my mother so unfulfilling that you need such things?” Tharion offered a charming smile. “I like to pretend I know what I’m

doing around machines,” he deflected.

She gave him a light laugh in return, coming closer. Tharion kept

himself perfectly still, refusing to shy from the hand she laid on his bare chest. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“Your mother’s been keeping me busy.” Take it up with her.

A small, shy smile. “I’d hoped we could …” She blushed, and Tharion

caught the meaning.

They hadn’t done that in years. Why now? Water-spirits were

capricious—he’d figured she’d gotten him, had him, lost interest, and moved on. Even if the vows between them still bound them together irreparably.

Tharion covered her small hand with his own, brushing his thumb over

the velvety skin. “It’s late, and I have an early start.”

“And yet you’re here, toiling on this … machine.” She took after her

mother when it came to technology. Had barely mastered the concept of a computer, despite lessons with Tharion. He wondered if she even knew the name for the machine behind him.

“I need it for tomorrow’s work.” A lie. “More than you need me?” Yes. Definitely yes.

But Tharion gave another one of those grins. “Another time, I promise.” “I heard you went into the city today.” “I’m always in the city.” She eyed him, and he noted the jealous, wary gleam. “Who did you see?” “Some friends.” “Which ones?” How many interrogations had begun like this and ended in her crying to

her mother? The last one had been only a few days ago. Afterward, he’d wound up on that boat in the Haldren Sea, hunting for Sofie Renast’s remains.

He said carefully, “Bryce Quinlan, Ruhn Danaan, Ithan Holstrom, and

Hunt Athalar.” No need to mention Aidas or Prince Cormac. They weren’t his friends.

“Bryce Quinlan—the girl from this spring? With the star?” He wasn’t surprised she only asked about the female. “Yeah.” Another

wary look that Tharion pretended not to notice as he said casually, “She and Athalar are dating now, you know. A nice ending after everything that went down.”

The River Queen’s daughter relaxed visibly, shoulders slumping. “How

sweet.”

“I’d like to introduce you sometime.” A blatant lie. “I shall ask Mother.” He said, “I’m going to see them again tomorrow. You could join me.” It

was reckless, but … he’d spent ten years now avoiding her, dodging the truth. Maybe they could change it up a bit.

“Oh, Mother will need more time than that to prepare.” He bowed his head, the picture of understanding. “Just let me know

when. It’ll be a double date.”

“What’s that?” Television didn’t exist down here. Or at least in the River Queen’s royal

chambers. So popular culture, anything modern … they weren’t even on her radar.

Not that theirs could be considered a true betrothal. It was more like

indentured servitude.

“Two couples going out to a meal together. You know, a date … times

two.”

“Ah.” A pretty smile. “I’d like that.” So would Athalar. Tharion would never hear the end of it. He glanced at

the clock. “I do have an early start, and this engine is a mess …”

It was as close to a dismissal as he’d ever dare make. He did have a few

rights: she could seek him out for sex—as she’d done—but he could say no without repercussions; and his duties as Captain of Intelligence were more important than seeing to her needs. He prayed she’d consider fixing a wave skimmer one of those duties.

Ogenas be thanked, she did. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” And then she was gone, the scent of water lilies with her. As the doors

slid open to let her through, Tharion glimpsed her four mer guards waiting on the other side—the River Queen’s daughter never went anywhere alone.

The broad-chested males would have fought to the death for the chance to share her bed. He knew they detested him for having and rejecting that access.

He’d happily yield his position. If only the River Queen would let him.

Alone again, Tharion sighed, leaning his forehead against the wave

skimmer.

He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. It could be weeks

or years until she and her mother would start pushing for the wedding. And then for children. And he’d be locked in a cage, here below the surface, until even his Vanir life expired. Old and dreamless and forgotten.

A fate worse than death.

But if this thing with Sofie and Emile Renast was indeed playing out in

a big way … he’d use it as his temporary escape. He didn’t give a shit about the rebellion, not really. But his queen had given him a task, so he’d milk this investigation for all it was worth. Perhaps see what the intel Sofie had gathered could gain him.

Until his own stupid choices finally called in a debt.

“And here’s the common room,” Hunt said through his teeth to Baxian as he shouldered open the door to the barracks hangout area. “As you already know.”

“Always nice to hear from a local,” Baxian said, black wings folded in

tightly as he noted the dim space: the little kitchenette to the left of the door, the sagging chairs and couches before the large TV, the door to the bathrooms straight ahead. “This is only for triarii?”

“All yours tonight,” Hunt said, checking his phone. After ten. He’d

been on his way out at seven when Celestina had called, asking him to give Baxian a tour of the Comitium. Considering the sheer size of the place … it had taken this long. Especially because Baxian had oh-so-many questions.

The bastard knew he was keeping Hunt here. Away from Bryce and that

sweet, sumptuous mouth. Which was precisely why Hunt had opted to grin and bear it: he wouldn’t give the shithead the satisfaction of knowing how much he was pissing him off. Or turning his balls blue.

But enough was enough. Hunt asked, “You need me to tuck you into

bed, too?”

Baxian snorted, going up to the fridge and yanking it open. The light

bounced off his wings, silvering their arches. “You guys have crap beer.”

“Government salary,” Hunt said, leaning against the doorway. “Menus

for takeout are in the top drawer to your right; or you can call down to the canteen and see if they’re still serving. Good? Great. Bye.”

“What’s that?” Baxian asked, and there was enough curiosity in his tone

that Hunt didn’t bite his head off. He followed the direction of the Helhound’s gaze.

“Um. That’s a TV. We watch stuff on it.” Baxian threw him a withering glare. “I know what a TV is, Athalar. I

meant those wires and boxes beneath.”

Hunt arched a brow. “That’s an OptiCube.” Baxian stared at him

blankly. Hunt tried again. “Gaming system?” The Helhound shook his head.

For a moment, Hunt was standing in Baxian’s place, assessing the same

room, the same strange, new tech, Isaiah and Justinian explaining what a

fucking mobile phone was. Hunt said roughly, “You play games on it.

Racing games, first-person games … giant time suck, but fun.”

Baxian looked like the word—fun—was foreign to him, too. Solas.

Sandriel hated technology. Had refused to allow even televisions in her

palace. Baxian might as well have been transported here from three centuries ago. Hunt himself had encountered tech in other parts of the world, but when most of his duties had kept him focused on Sandriel or her missions, he hadn’t really had time to learn about everyday shit.

From the hallway behind him, low voices murmured. Naomi—and

Pollux. Isaiah’s soothing tones wove between them. Thank the gods.

Hunt found Baxian observing him warily. He threw a flat stare back,

one he’d perfected as the Umbra Mortis. Baxian just aimed for the hallway.

Hunt gave him a wide berth.

The Hammer filled the doorway of Vik’s room, talking to Isaiah and

Naomi in the hall. It was Pollux’s room now. Hunt’s magic rumbled, lightning on the horizon. Pollux sneered at Hunt as he stalked past. Bags and boxes were piled high behind him, a miniature city dedicated to the Hammer’s vanity.

Hunt, keenly aware of all the cameras, of Bryce’s plea to behave,

continued on, nodding at Naomi and Isaiah as he passed.

“Well, here you go,” Hunt said to Baxian, pausing before Justinian’s old

room. Baxian opened the door. The room was as bare and empty as Hunt’s had been.

A duffel lay beside the narrow bed. All of Baxian’s belongings fit in one

fucking bag.

It didn’t make a difference. The Helhound was an asshole who had done

shit that even Hunt couldn’t stomach. For him to be in Justinian’s room, filling his place—

The crucifix in the lobby flashed in Hunt’s mind, Justinian’s agonized

face as he hung on it. Hunt tried to banish the thought, but failed. He’d fucked up. Twice now, he’d fucked up. First with the Fallen rebellion, then this spring with the Viper Queen, and now … Was he really going to allow himself and Bryce to be dragged into something similar? How many people would be destroyed by the end?

Baxian said, stepping into his room, “Thanks for the tour, Athalar.”

Hunt again glimpsed that sad, empty little room behind the Helhound.

Perhaps something like pity stirred him, because he said, “I’ll give you a lesson on video games tomorrow. I gotta get home.”

He could have sworn a shadow dimmed in Baxian’s eyes that appeared

a Hel of a lot like longing. “Thanks.”

Hunt grunted. “We’ll link up after the morning check-in. You can

shadow me for the day.”

“Real generous of you,” Baxian said, and shut the door without further

reply.

Fortunately, Pollux shut his own door right then—slammed it in

Naomi’s face. Leaving Hunt with his two friends.

They headed for the common room without needing to say a word,

waiting until they’d closed the door and ensured no one was in the bathroom before sinking onto the couch. Hunt really wanted to go home, but … “So this fucking sucks,” he said quietly.

“Pollux should be drawn and quartered,” Naomi spat. “I’m amazed you’re both still alive,” Isaiah said to her, propping his

feet on the coffee table and loosening the gray tie around his neck. Judging by the suit, he must have recently gotten in from escorting Celestina somewhere. “But as your commander, I’m grateful you didn’t brawl.” He gave Hunt a pointed look.

Hunt snorted. But Naomi said, “The two of them defile those rooms by

staying in there.”

“They’re only rooms,” Isaiah said, though pain tightened his face. “All

that Vik and Justinian were … it’s not in there.”

“Yeah, it’s in a box at the bottom of a trench,” Naomi said, crossing her

arms. “And Justinian’s ashes are on the wind.”

“So are Micah’s,” Hunt said softly, and they looked at him.

Hunt just shrugged. “Were you really going to rebel this spring?” Naomi asked. They hadn’t

once spoken about it these past months. The shit that had gone down.

“Not by the end,” Hunt said. “I meant everything I said on the boat. I

changed my mind; I realized that wasn’t the path for me.” He met Isaiah’s disapproving frown. “I still mean it.”

He did. If Sofie and Emile and Ophion and Cormac and all that shit

went away right now, he wouldn’t fucking think twice about it. Would be

glad for it.

But that wasn’t how things were playing out. It wasn’t how Bryce

wanted it to play out. He could barely stand the sight of Isaiah’s tattooed brow.

“I know,” Isaiah said at last. “You’ve got a lot more on the line now,” he

added, and Hunt wondered if he’d intended the slight tone of warning in the words.

Wondered if Isaiah remembered how he and the other angels in the

Summit conference room had bowed to him after he’d ripped off Sandriel’s head. What would his friends do if he told them about his recent contact with an Ophion rebel? His head spun.

Hunt changed the subject, nodding to the hall behind the shut door.

“You two going to stay here or find places of your own?”

“Oh, I’m out,” Isaiah said, practically beaming. “Signed a lease this

morning on a place a few blocks from here. CBD, but closer to the Old Square.”

“Nice,” Hunt said, and lifted a brow at Naomi, who shook her head. “Free rent,” she said, “despite the new hallmates.” Pollux and Baxian

would be staying here until Celestina deemed them well adjusted enough to live in the city proper. Hunt shuddered to think of them loose.

“Do you trust that they’re going to behave?” he asked Isaiah. “Because

I fucking don’t.”

“We don’t have any choice but to trust that they will,” Isaiah said,

sighing. “And hope that the Governor will see them for what they are.”

“Will it make any difference if she knows?” Naomi asked, tucking her

hands behind her head.

“I guess we’ll see,” Hunt said, and glanced at his phone again. “All

right. I’m out.” He paused at the doorway, however. Looked at his two friends, wholly unaware of the shit that was coming their way. It’d be huge for either of them—potentially freeing for Isaiah—to bust Ophion. To capture Sofie Renast and her brother and haul in Cormac.

If he spoke up now, spilled his guts, could he spare Bryce from the

worst of it? Could he avoid crucifixion—avoid having an empty room being all that was left of him one day, too? If he played it right, could he save them both—and maybe Ruhn and Ithan—and live to tell the tale? Tharion

was likely dead fucking meat for not telling the authorities about his mission, queen or no, as was the Crown Prince of Avallen. But …

Isaiah asked, “Something on your mind?” Hunt cleared his throat.

The words sizzled on his tongue. A parachute, and now would be the

exact moment to pull it open. We have a major problem with rebels converging on this city and I need your help to make sure they play right into our hands.

Hunt cleared his throat again. Shook his head.

And left.

21

“Dusk’s Truth, huh?” Hunt’s deep voice rumbled across the bed to Bryce as they lay in the darkness, Syrinx already snoring between them.

“Danika definitely thought she was onto something,” Bryce replied.

Hunt had missed dinner, leaving her to an unbearably awkward meal with Ithan. He’d been quiet and contemplative, wearing the game face she’d seen before big matches. She’d said as much to him, but he hadn’t wanted to talk.

So Bryce had combed through Danika’s papers and clippings again.

Had found nothing new. She’d only filled Hunt in when he’d finally gotten home from the Comitium and they’d readied for bed. Any thoughts of continuing what had gone down in that alley had vanished by the time she’d finished.

Hunt hummed, shifting onto his side. “So you’re really going to help

Cormac, then.”

“It’s not about wanting to help him—it’s more about wanting to help

Emile. But I meant what I said to you in the alley: this is also about getting what I can out of the situation for our own advantage.” An end to the betrothal, and some training. “And,” she admitted, “learning about Danika.”

“Does it matter? About Danika, I mean?” “It shouldn’t. But it does. For some reason, it does.” She said carefully,

“I know we discussed this earlier, but … I can’t do this without you, Hunt.”

He said softly, “I know. I’m just … Fuck, Quinlan. The thought of

anything happening to you scares the shit out of me. I understand, though.

That’s what prompted me this spring … what I was doing with Vik and Justinian. It was for Shahar.”

Her heart strained. “I know.” And he’d been willing to give that up for

her—for them. “So you’re in?”

“Yeah. Whatever help I can give, I’ll offer it. But we need an exit

strategy.”

“We do,” she agreed. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, though. I’m

exhausted.”

“All right.” His wing brushed her bare shoulder and she turned her head

to find him with his head propped on a fist.

“Don’t do that.” “What?” His eyes sparkled in the dimness.

She turned onto her own side and waved a hand toward him. “Look so

… like that.”

His lips curled upward. “Sexy? Attractive? Seductive?” “All of the above.” He flopped onto his back. “I feel weird doing anything with Holstrom a

wall away.”

She pointed to the aforementioned wall. “He’s on the other side of the

apartment.”

“He’s a wolf.” Bryce inhaled the musky, midnight scent of him. Arousal. “So let’s be

quiet, then.”

Hunt’s swallow was audible. “I … All right, I’ll be straight with you,

Quinlan.”

She arched a brow.

He blew out a breath toward the ceiling. “It’s been … a while. For me, I

mean.”

“Me too.” The longest she’d ever gone without sex since her first time

at seventeen. Well, ignoring what she and Hunt had done on the couch months ago—though that wasn’t the kind of sex she wanted right now.

He said, “I guarantee that however long it’s been for you, it’s been

longer for me.”

“How long?” Some part of her howled at the idea of anyone—any-fucking-one—

putting their hands and mouth and other parts on him. Of Hunt touching

anyone else. Wanting anyone else. Of him existing in a world where he hadn’t known her, and some other female had been more important—

Some other female had been more important. Shahar. He’d loved her.

Been willing to die for her.

He nearly died for you, too, a small voice whispered. But … this was

different somehow.

Hunt grimaced. “Six months?” Bryce laughed. “That’s it?” He growled. “It’s a long time.” “I thought you were going to say years.” He gave her an affronted look. “I wasn’t celibate, you know.” “So who was the lucky lady, then?” Or male, she supposed. She’d

assumed he preferred females, but it was entirely possible he also—

“A nymph at a bar. She was from out of town and didn’t recognize me.” Bryce’s fingers curled, as if invisible claws appeared at their tips.

“Nymph, huh.”

Was that his type? Exactly like those dancers at the ballet? Delicate and

svelte? Had Shahar been like that? Bryce had never searched for portraits of the dead Archangel—hadn’t ever wanted to torture herself like that. But Sandriel had been beautiful as Hel, slim and tall, and Hunt had once mentioned that they were twins.

Bryce added, if only because she wanted him to feel a shred of the

misery that now coursed through her, “Lion shifter. In a bathroom at the White Raven.”

“The night of the bombing?” The words were sharp. As if her fucking

someone while they’d known each other was unacceptable.

“Less than a week before,” she said nonchalantly, quietly pleased at his

sharpness.

“I thought you didn’t like alphaholes.” “I like them for some things.” “Oh yeah?” He trailed a finger down her bare arm. “What, exactly?”

His voice dropped to a purr. “You don’t seem to enjoy males bossing you around.”

She couldn’t help her blush. “Every once in a while.” It was all she

could think to say as his fingers reached her wrist and he lifted her hand,

bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to her palm. “This one was especially good at being in charge.”

“All right, Quinlan,” he said against her skin. “I’m thoroughly jealous.” She chuckled. “So am I.” He kissed the inside of her wrist, lips grazing over sensitive flesh.

“Before we went off on this stupid tangent, I was trying to warn you that it’s been a while, so I might …”

“Be fast?” He nipped at her wrist. “Be loud, asshole.” She laughed, running her fingers over his smooth, unmarked brow. “I

could gag you.”

Hunt barked out a laugh. “Please tell me you’re not into that.” She let out a hmmm. “For real?” He sat up slowly.

She lay back against the pillows, arms behind her head. “I’ll try

anything once.”

A muscle throbbed in his neck. “All right. But let’s start with the basics.

If that gets boring, I promise to find ways to keep you interested.”

“That doesn’t get rid of the problem of Ithan’s keen hearing.” He shifted against the bed, and Bryce found the blatant evidence of his

interest pushing against his tight boxer briefs. Solas, he was huge.

She laughed softly, sitting up as well. “It really has been a while.” He trembled, though—with restraint. “Tell me yes, Bryce.” She went molten at the raw need in his words. “I want to touch you

first.”

“That’s not a yes.” “I want your yes.” “Yes. Fuck yes. Now your turn.” She only smirked, pressing a surprisingly steady hand to his bare,

muscled chest. He allowed her to push him back against the pillows. “I’ll say yes when I’ve had my fill.”

Hunt let out a low, rough noise. “Not too late for a gag,” Bryce murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest.

Hunt was going to burst out of his skin. He couldn’t stand it: the sight of Bryce now straddling his thighs, wearing nothing but an old, soft T-shirt, the silken glide of her hair over his bare chest as she pressed a kiss between his pecs. Pressed another near his nipple.

There was another person in this apartment. One with exceptional

hearing, and he—

Bryce’s lips closed around his left nipple, wet heat sending Hunt’s hips

straining toward hers. She flicked her tongue across the taut bud, and Hunt hissed. “For fuck’s sake.”

She laughed around his nipple, then moved to the other. “Your chest is

as big as mine,” she muttered.

“That’s the least sexy thing anyone has ever said to me,” he managed to

say.

She dug her long nails into his chest, the pain a light, singeing kiss. His

cock throbbed in response. Gods spare him, he wouldn’t last a minute.

Bryce kissed his right ribs. Ran her tongue along the muscles there.

“How do you get these stupid muscles, anyway?”

“Exercise.” Why was she talking? Why was he talking?

His hands shook, and he fisted them in the sheets. Syrinx had leapt off

the bed, trotting to the bathroom and kicking the door shut with a hind leg.

Smart chimera.

Her tongue teased over his left ribs, trailing downward as her fingers

traced lines along his chest, his stomach. She kissed his belly button, and her head hovered mere inches from the edge of his boxer briefs, so close he was about to erupt at the sight of it—

“Aren’t we supposed to do some kissing first?” His voice was guttural. “Absolutely not,” Bryce said, wholly focused on her task. Hunt couldn’t

get a breath down as her fingers curled on the waistband of his underwear and peeled it away. He could only let her do it, lifting his hips to accommodate her, baring all of him—

“Well, well, well,” she crooned, sitting up. Hunt almost started whining

at the distance she put between that mouth of hers and his cock. “This is a … big surprise.”

“Stop playing, Quinlan.” She had five seconds until he leapt on her and

did everything he’d dreamed of for months now. Everything he’d planned to do during the longest night of the year.

She laid a finger on his lips. “Hush.” She brushed her mouth over his.

Slid her tongue along the seam of his lips. Hunt parted for her, and as her tongue slipped into his mouth, he caught it between his lips and sucked hard. Let her know precisely how he liked it.

Her whimper was a triumph. But Hunt kept still as she withdrew,

straightening again, and lifted the shirt over her head.

Fuck, those breasts. Full and heavy and tipped in rosy nipples that had

him seeing double—

He hadn’t gotten enough of them that day they’d hooked up. Not even

close. He needed to feast on these, needed their weight in his palms, those pretty nipples on his tongue—

She fisted her breasts, squeezing as she looked down at him. Hunt

bucked his hips, driving his cock up before her in a silent request. Bryce only writhed, the plane of her stomach undulating as she squeezed her breasts again.

Hunt surged to grab her, to put his mouth where her hands were, but she

held up a finger. “Not yet.” Her eyes simmered like coals in the dimness.

Her star began to glow faintly, as if it were under a black light. She traced her finger over the soft iridescence. “Please.”

He panted through his teeth, chest heaving, but lay back on the pillows

once more. “Well, when you put it so politely …”

She let out a sensuous laugh and leaned over him. Ran her nails along

the shaft of his cock, then back down to its base. He shivered, pleasure singing along his spine as she said, “There’s no way I can fit all of you in me.”

He ground out, “Never know until we try.” Bryce smiled, and her head dipped as her fingers wrapped around his

cock, barely able to grasp him fully. She squeezed his base right as her tongue lapped at his tip.

Hunt bucked, panting hard. Bryce laughed against his cock. “Quiet,

remember?”

He was going to cut off Holstrom’s ears. That would keep the wolf from

hearing—

Bryce licked him again, tongue swirling, then slid his broad head into

her mouth. Warm, wet heat enveloped him as she sucked tight and—

Hunt arched again, clapping a hand over his mouth as his eyes rolled

back in his head. Yes. Fuck yes. Bryce withdrew, then slid her mouth further onto him. A few more strokes and he’d—

Hunt shifted, making to grab her, but she pinned his hips to the bed with

a hand. Took him until he bumped against the back of her throat. He nearly flew out of his skin.

She sucked him hard, the pressure so perfect it was practically pain,

withdrawing nearly to his tip before taking him all again. What didn’t make it into her mouth was squeezed by her hand in flawless tandem.

Hunt took in the sight of his cock disappearing into her mouth, her hair

whispering over his thighs, her breasts swaying—

“Quinlan,” he groaned, a plea and a warning.

Bryce only slid him down her throat again, her free hand digging into

the muscles of his thigh in silent permission. In her mouth—that was where she wanted him.

The thought alone unleashed him. Hunt couldn’t stop himself as he

raked his hands into her hair, fingers digging into her scalp, and rode her mouth. She met him thrust for thrust, moaning deep in her throat so that it echoed through him—

And then her hand slipped down to his balls, squeezing hard as her

teeth grazed along his shaft—

Hunt shattered, biting down on his lip so hard the coppery tang of blood

coated his tongue, bucking up into her, spilling down her throat.

Bryce swallowed as he came, the walls of her mouth fluttering against

him, and he was going to fucking die from this, from her, from the pleasure she was wringing from him—

Hunt groaned, the last of himself shooting into her mouth. Then he was

shaking and panting as she removed her mouth in one wet slide, then held his gaze.

She swallowed once more. Licked her lips.

Hunt tried and failed to get up. As if his body were stunned stupid.

Bryce smirked, a queen triumphant. Every fantasy he’d had of her these

months—none of them came close to this. To what her mouth had been like, to what she looked like naked …

Hunt had managed to prop himself up on his elbows when Ithan yelled

from the other side of the apartment, “Please: have sex a little louder! I

didn’t hear everything that time!”

Bryce burst out laughing, but Hunt could only stare at the little droplet

that ran down her chin, gleaming in the dim light of her star. She noted the direction of his attention and wiped off her chin, rubbing her fingers together, then licking them clean.

Hunt growled, low and deep. “I’m going to fuck you senseless.” Her

nipples were hard as pebbles, and she squirmed against him. Nothing but those little lace panties separated her sweetness from his bare thighs.

But then Holstrom shouted, “That sounds medically dangerous!” And Bryce laughed again, rolling off Hunt and reaching for his T-shirt.

“Let’s go to a sleazy motel tomorrow,” she said, and promptly went to sleep.

Hunt, mind blasted apart, could only lie there naked, wondering if he’d

imagined it all.

Hunt sat in a simple folding chair at the bottom of an abyss, nothing but blackness around him, the only light coming from the faint glow cast by his body. There was no beginning or end to the perpetual night.

He’d fallen asleep beside Quinlan, wondering if he should just slide his

hand over her hip to reacquaint himself with that lovely spot between her legs. But Bryce wasn’t there.

He didn’t want Bryce in a place like this, so dark and empty and yet …

awake. Wings rustled nearby—not the soft feathers of his wings, but something leathery. Dry.

Hunt stiffened, trying to shoot to his feet, but he couldn’t. His ass

stayed planted in the chair, though no ties bound him. His booted feet were glued to the black floor.

“Who’s there?” The darkness absorbed his voice, muffling it. The

leathery wings whispered again, and Hunt twisted his head toward the sound. Moving his head was about the only thing he could manage.

“A greater warrior would have freed himself from those bonds by now.”

The soft, deep voice slithered over his skin.

“Who the fuck are you?” “Why do you not use the gifts in your blood to free yourself, Orion?” Hunt gritted his teeth. “It’s Hunt.”

“I see. Because Orion was a hunter.” The voice came from everywhere. “What’s your name?” “Midgardians do not feel comfortable uttering my name on your side of

the Rift.”

Hunt stilled. There was only one being whose name was not uttered in

Midgard.

The Prince of the Pit. Apollion.

His blood chilled. This was a fucked-up, weird-ass dream, no doubt

caused by Quinlan literally blowing his mind into smithereens—

“It is no dream.” The seventh and most lethal of the demon princes of Hel was in his

mind—

“I am not in your mind, though your thoughts ripple toward me like

your world’s radio waves. You and I are in a place between our worlds. A pocket-realm, as it were.”

“What do you want?” Hunt’s voice held steady, but—fuck. He needed

to get out of here, to find some way back to Bryce. If the Prince of the Pit could get into Hunt’s mind, then—

“If I went into her mind, my brother would be very angry with me.

Again.” Hunt could have sworn he heard a smile in the prince’s voice. “You certainly worry a great deal about a female who is far safer than you at the moment.”

“Why am I here?” Hunt forced out, willing his mind to clear of

anything but the thought. It was difficult, though. This being before him, around him … This demon prince had killed the seventh Asteri. Had devoured the seventh Asteri.

The Star-Eater. “I do like that name,” Apollion said, chuckling softly. “But as for your

question, you are here because I wished to meet you. To assess your progress.”

“We got the pep talk from Aidas this afternoon, don’t worry.” “My brother does not inform me of his movements. I do not know or

care what he has or has not done.”

Hunt lifted his chin with a bravado he didn’t feel. “So let’s hear it. Your

proposal for how we should ally with you to overthrow the Asteri and set you up as our new masters.”

“Is that what you think will happen?” “Aidas already gave us a history lesson. Spare me.” The darkness rumbled with distant thunder. “You are foolish and

arrogant.”

“Takes one to know one, I suppose.” The darkness paused. “You are impertinent as well. Do you not know

where I come from? My father was the Void, the Being That Existed Before. Chaos was his bride and my dam. It is to them that we shall all one day return, and their mighty powers that run in my blood.”

“Fancy.” But Apollion said, “You’re wasting the gifts that were given to you.” Hunt drawled, “Oh, I think I’ve put them to good use.” “You don’t know a fraction of what you might do. You and the Starborn

girl.”

“Again, Quinlan got the whole ‘master your powers’ talk from Aidas

today, and that was boring enough, so let’s not repeat it.”

“Both of you would benefit from training. Your powers are more similar

than you realize. Conduits, both of you. You have no idea how valuable you and the others like you are.”

Hunt arched a brow. “Oh yeah?” The darkness rippled with displeasure. “If you are so dismissive of my

assistance, perhaps I should send some … appetizers to test you and yours.”

Hunt flared his wings slightly. “Why summon me? Just to give me this

shove?”

Apollion’s unholy essence whispered around him again. “The Northern

Rift is groaning once more. I can smell war on the wind. I do not plan to lose this time.”

“Well, I don’t plan to have a demon prince for my ruler, so find a new

five-year goal.”

A soft laugh. “You do amuse, Orion.” Hunt snarled, and his lightning sizzled in answer. “I take it we’re done

here—”

The seething darkness and those leathery wings vanished.

Hunt jolted awake. He was already reaching for the knife on the nightstand when he halted.

Quinlan slept beside him, Syrinx on her other side, both of them

snoring softly. In the darkness, her red hair looked like fresh blood across her pillow.

The Prince of the Pit had spoken to him. Knew who he was, who Bryce

was—

The Prince of the Pit was a liar and a monster, and it was entirely likely

that he was trying to lure Hunt and Bryce into some fool’s quest with their powers. And yet … Fuck.

Hunt ran a shaking hand over his sweaty face, then settled back onto the

pillows, brushing a knuckle down Bryce’s soft cheek. She murmured, shifting closer, and Hunt obliged, sliding his arm over her waist and folding a wing around her. As if he could shield her from all that hunted them.

On both sides of the Northern Rift.

22

Ruhn finished off his beer, setting it on the coffee table before the massive TV in the living room. Declan, seated to his left, did the same. “All right,” Dec said, “espionage time.”

Flynn, smoking some mirthroot that Ruhn desperately needed a hit of,

chuckled. “Our sweet son Ruhn is all grown up and spying for rebels.”

“Shut up,” Ruhn growled. “I knew I should have done this in private.” “Where would the fun be in that?” Dec asked. “Plus, shouldn’t someone

be here in case it’s, I don’t know, a trap or something?”

“Then why the fuck is he smoking?” Ruhn nodded to where Flynn blew

smoke rings.

“Because I’m a self-destructive yet insanely charming idiot?” Flynn

grinned.

“Emphasis on insane,” Dec muttered.

But Ruhn wanted them with him tonight, when most of the city was

asleep, as he attempted contact with Agent Daybright. He had the comm-crystal, though he wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it—how to even begin connecting his abilities with its communication affinity. All hypotheticals, no guarantee of success. He couldn’t decide whether or not it’d be a relief to fail. To be able to walk away from this.

“So, are we supposed to meditate with you or something?” Flynn set

down the mirthroot.

“How the Hel would that help?” Ruhn asked. “Solidarity?” Flynn suggested.

Ruhn snorted. “I’m good. Just … put a wooden spoon between my teeth

if I go into some kind of fit.”

Declan raised one. “Already thought of that.” Ruhn put his hand on his heart. “Thanks. I’m touched.” Flynn clapped Ruhn on the back. “We’ve got you. Do your thing.” There wasn’t anything else to say, anything else Ruhn needed to hear,

so he closed his eyes, leaning back against the cushions of the couch. He clenched the crystal in his fist, the stone eerily warm.

A mental bridge—that was how he always pictured the link he made

between his mind and someone else’s. So that was the image he summoned, funneling it through the crystal in his hand, as surely as Bryce had funneled her own powers through the crystal of the Gate this spring. Cormac had said the crystal had similar properties, so … why not?

Ruhn extended the bridge from himself, through the crystal, and then

out into the vast unknown, sprawling into a darkness with no end. He clenched the crystal tighter, willing it to lead him where he needed to go, as if it were a prism filtering his powers out into the world.

Hello? His voice echoed down the bridge. Into nothing.

He visualized the crystal’s milky core. Imagined a thread running from

it, down along this mental bridge, out toward another end.

Hello? This is Agent … Well, fuck. He should have come up with a code name. He sure as Hel

couldn’t risk his own name or identity, but he wanted something cool, damn it.

This is your new contact.

No answer from Daybright came. Ruhn kept extending the bridge,

letting it span into nothingness. Pictured the crystal and its thread, letting himself follow its trail into the night.

I’m here to— Yes?

Ruhn went still at the faint female voice. Light glowed down the bridge,

and then there she was.

A female of pure flame. Or that was how she chose to appear. Not how

Lehabah had been made of flame, with her body visible, but rather a female cloaked in it, only a flash of a bare wrist or an ankle or a shoulder through the veil. She was humanoid, but that was all he could glean. She looked like

one of the radical sun-priests who’d gone rogue and immolated themselves to be close to their god.

Who are you? he asked.

Who are you? she challenged. Not one hint of her face.

I asked first.

Her flame flared, as if in annoyance. But she said, The little black dog

sleeps soundly on a wool blanket.

Ruhn blew out a breath. There it was—the code phrase Cormac had

given him to confirm her identity. He said, And the gray tabby cleans her paws by the light of the moon.

Utter nonsense.

But she said, I’m Agent Daybright, in case that wasn’t clear enough.

Now … you are?

Ruhn peered down at himself, swearing. He hadn’t thought to hide his

body—

But he found only a form of night and stars, galaxies and planets. As if

his silhouette had been filled by them. He lifted a hand, finding not skin but the starry blanket of the sky covering his fingers. Had his mind instinctively shielded him? Or was this what he was, deep below the skin? Was this fire-being standing thirty feet down the mental bridge what she was, deep below her own skin? Or fur, he supposed.

She could be a faun or a satyr. Or a witch or a shifter. Or an Asteri, as

Cormac had suggested. Maybe the fire was that of the holy star in her.

She merely stood there, burning. Well?

Her voice was beautiful. Like a golden song. It stirred his Fae soul,

made it perk up. I, ah … I hadn’t gotten that far yet.

She angled her head with what seemed like predatory intent. They sent

a novice?

A chill skittered down his spine. She certainly spoke like one of the

Asteri, regal and aloof. She looked over her shoulder. As if back toward the body connected to her mind.

Ruhn said, Look, Agent Silverbow gave me this crystal, but had no idea

if it could even work on a mind-to-mind level. So I wanted to attempt to make contact and let you know I’m here and this is the new mode of communication. So if it’s an emergency, I don’t need to waste time figuring out how to get in touch.

That’s fine.

He surveyed her again. So, we trust each other that easily, then? He

couldn’t stop his taunting question. You’re not at all worried the crystal fell into the wrong hands and the code phrases were compromised?

Agents of the Asteri don’t bumble about so much.

Damn. I’ll try harder to impress you the next time.

Another soft laugh. You already have, Agent Night.

Did you just give me a code name? Night and Daybright. Night and

Day—he liked that.

I figured I’d spare you the trouble of trying to invent something

interesting. She turned back to her end of the bridge, flame flowing in her wake.

No messages for me to pass along? He didn’t dare say Cormac’s name.

Anything about the Spine?

She kept walking. No. But tell your commander that safe passage is

granted under the cover of the waning moon.

Ruhn bristled. Like Hel was Cormac his commander. I don’t know what

that means.

You’re not supposed to. But Agent Silverbow will. And tell him I much

prefer this method of communicating.

Then Daybright and her flame winked out, and Ruhn was alone.

“Why not tell me Agent Daybright was a female?” Ruhn asked Cormac the next morning, standing in his living room and gulping down his second cup of coffee, Flynn lounging beside him. He’d messaged his cousin to come here under the guise of wanting to discuss the terms of Bryce’s engagement.

Thankfully, his cousin hadn’t needed much more than that before arriving.

Cormac shrugged, his gray T-shirt lightly coated in sweat, presumably

from the scorching walk over here. “I thought you might share your father’s outdated views that females should not be in the line of danger and balk at putting her at risk.”

“Does anything I’ve ever done indicate I’d feel that way?” “You’re protective of your sister to a fault.” Cormac frowned. “Did you

see Daybright?”

“She appeared humanoid, cloaked in flame. I couldn’t see anything,

really.”

“Good. I’m assuming you veiled yourself, too.” Only by pure dumb luck. “Yeah.” Cormac paced in front of the TV. “But she said nothing of Sofie?” Ruhn hadn’t even thought to ask. Guilt twisted in his gut. “No.” Cormac dragged his hands through his short blond hair. “And no

updates on the Asteri’s mech-suit prototype being sent along the Spine?”

“No. She only told me to tell you that safe passage is granted under the

light of the waning moon.”

Cormac sighed. Whatever that meant. But Declan asked as he emerged

from the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand, “So what now? Ruhn waits for her to call with intel about this raid on the Spine?”

Cormac sneered at Declan. Avallen snob to the core. He said to Ruhn,

“Remind me, cousin, why you felt the need to involve these two fools in our business?”

“Remind me,” Ruhn countered, “why I’m working with someone who

insults my brothers?”

Dec and Flynn smirked at Cormac, who seethed, but finally sighed. The

Avallen Prince said, “To answer your question, Declan Emmett, yes: Ruhn will wait until Daybright contacts him with details on the Spine raid. Or until I have something for him to pass along, in which case he’ll contact her again.”

Flynn leaned back on the couch, propping his arms behind his head.

“Sounds boring.”

“Lives are at stake,” Cormac gritted out. “This hit on the Spine,

attaining that new mech-suit prototype before the Asteri can use it against us on the battlefields, will give us a fighting chance.”

“Not to mention all the weapons you’ll loot from the supply trains,”

Declan said darkly.

Cormac ignored his tone. “We don’t do anything unless it’s been

approved by Command. So wait until you hear from me before you contact her again.”

Fine. He could do that. Go about his life, pretending he wasn’t a sort-of

rebel. Only until he wanted out, Cormac had promised. And after that … he’d go back to what he’d been doing. To leading the Aux and hating his

father yet dreading the day the male died. Until the next person who needed him for something came along.

Flynn grinned. “Bureaucracy at its finest.” Cormac scowled at the Fae lord, but stalked for the front door. “I need

to head out.”

“Hunting for Emile?” Ruhn asked. It was the middle of the morning—

the kid would likely be lying low.

Cormac nodded. “Being a visiting prince allows me the cover of …

sightseeing, as you call it here. And as a tourist, I’ve taken a keen interest in your Black Dock and its customs.”

“Morbid,” Declan said.

Ruhn blurted, “You can’t think Emile’s going to jump into one of the

black boats in broad daylight.”

“I’ll look for him both by the light of the sun and the moon, until I find

him. But I’d rather ask casual questions of the Reapers during the day.”

“Are you insane?” Flynn said, laughing in disbelief.

Ruhn was inclined to agree. “Don’t fuck with the Reapers, Cormac,” he

warned. “Even for Emile’s sake.”

Cormac patted a knife at his side. As if that would do anything to kill a

creature that was already dead. “I know how to handle myself.”

“I told you this would happen,” Hunt snarled to Isaiah as their steps thundered along the hallway of Celestina’s private residence atop the third tower of the Comitium. Celestina had called this meeting in her own home, rather than in the public office Micah had always used.

“We don’t have the full scope yet,” Isaiah shot back, adjusting his tie

and the lapels of his gray suit.

Celestina had tried to ease the harsh modernism that Micah had

favored: plush rugs now softened the white marble floors, angular statues had been replaced by lush-bodied effigies of Cthona, and vases of fluffy, vibrant flowers graced nearly every table and console they passed.

It was a nice contrast, Hunt might have thought. Had they not been

called here for a reason.

He kept reminding himself of that reason, that this was a triarii meeting

and not some one-on-one session. That he wasn’t in Sandriel’s castle of

horrors, where a trip to her private chambers ended in blood and screaming.

He inhaled once, thinking of Bryce, of her scent, the warmth of her

body against his. It settled the edge in him, even as something far more lethal opened an eye. What they were doing with Cormac, all this rebel shit they’d agreed to go through with last night …

Hunt glanced sidelong at Isaiah as the male knocked on the open double

doors of Celestina’s study. He could tell him. He needed someone like Isaiah, even-keeled and unflappable. Especially if Hel had a vested interest in the conflict. And Hunt himself.

He’d decided to ignore Apollion’s commands. He had no interest in

playing right into Hel’s hands.

Celestina murmured her welcome, and Hunt braced himself as he

followed Isaiah in.

Sunlight filled the glass-and-marble space, and all the hard-edged

furniture had been replaced by lovely artisanal wood pieces, but Hunt only noted the two males sitting before the desk. Naomi leaned against the wall by the built-in bookcase to the right, face dark and lethal focus fixed upon the males.

Well, the one male. The reason they were here.

Pollux didn’t turn as they entered, and Hunt aimed for the chair beside

Baxian. Isaiah could sit next to Pollux. Isaiah threw him a Thanks, asshole look, but Hunt scanned Celestina’s expression for clues.

Displeasure tightened the corners of her mouth, but her eyes were calm.

Face full of contemplation. She wore pale purple robes, her curls spilling down her bare arms like a waterfall of night. She might have been a goddess, so still and lovely was she—might have been Cthona herself, voluptuous and full-bodied, were it not for the radiant wings that filled with the light of the sun shining through the windows behind her.

“I apologize for keeping my message brief,” Celestina said to Hunt,

Isaiah, and Naomi. “But I did not want the full account on the record.”

Pollux and Baxian stared ahead at nothing. Or Hunt assumed that was

the case, given that one of Baxian’s eyes was swollen shut, and Pollux’s face was one big magnificent bruise. That it remained this way after twelve hours suggested the initial damage had been impressive. He wished he could have seen it.

“We understand,” Isaiah said in that take-no-shit commander’s tone.

“We share your disappointment.”

Celestina sighed. “Perhaps I was naïve in believing that I could

introduce two Pangerans to this city without a more thorough education in its ways. To hand over the responsibility”—she glanced at Naomi, then at Hunt—“was my mistake.”

Hunt could have warned her about that. He kept his mouth shut. “I would like to hear from you two, in your own words, about what

happened,” the Archangel ordered Pollux and Baxian. The tone was pleasant, yet her eyes glinted with hidden steel. “Pollux? Why don’t you start?”

It was a thing of beauty, the way Pollux bristled in his seat, flowing

golden hair still streaked with blood. The Hammer hated this. Absolutely fucking hated this, Hunt realized with no small amount of delight.

Celestina’s kindness, her fairness, her softness … Pollux was chafing even worse than Hunt. He’d served enthusiastically under Sandriel—had relished her cruelty and games. Perhaps sending him to Celestina had been a punishment that even the Asteri had not anticipated.

But Pollux growled, “I was having some fun at a tavern.” “Bar,” Hunt drawled. “We call them bars here.” Pollux glared, but said, “The female was all over me. She said she

wanted it.”

“Wanted what?” Celestina’s voice had taken on a decidedly icy tone. “To fuck me.” Pollux leaned back in his chair. “She said no such thing,” Baxian growled, wings shifting. “And were you there every moment of the night?” Pollux demanded.

“Though perhaps you were. You always pant after my scraps.”

Hunt met Isaiah’s wary stare. Some major tension had arisen between

these two in the years since Hunt and Isaiah had left Sandriel’s territory.

Baxian bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Here I was, thinking your scraps

were panting after me. They always seem so … unsatisfied when they leave your room.”

Pollux’s power—standard malakim magic, but strong—rattled the

pretty trinkets along the built-in bookcase.

Celestina cut in, “That is enough.” Warm, summer-kissed power filled

the room, smothering their own gifts. A feminine, unbreaking sort of magic

—the kind that took no shit and would lay down the law if threatened. That was utterly unafraid of Pollux and the sort of male he was. She said to the Hammer, “Explain what happened.”

“We went into the alley behind the tavern”—he threw that last word at

Hunt—“and she was all over me, as I said. Then the bastard”—he threw that one at Baxian—“attacked me.”

“And at what point did you not hear her say no?” Baxian challenged.

“The first or the tenth time?”

Pollux snorted. “Some females say no when they want it. It’s a game for

them.”

“You’re fucking delusional,” Naomi spat from across the room. “Was I talking to you, hag?” Pollux snapped. “Enough.” Celestina’s power again filled the room, stifling any magic

they might have summoned. She asked Baxian, “Why did you go into the alley after him?”

“Because I’ve spent decades with this asshole,” Baxian seethed. “I

knew what was about to happen. I wasn’t going to let him go through with it.”

“You did plenty of times under Sandriel,” Isaiah said, voice low. “You

and your whole triarii stood back.”

“You don’t know shit about what I did or didn’t do,” Baxian snapped at

Isaiah, then said to Celestina, “Pollux deserved the beating I gave him.”

The Hammer bared his teeth. Hunt could only watch in something like

shock.

“That may be true,” Celestina said, “but the fact remains that you two

are in my triarii and your fight was filmed. And it’s now online and being aired by every news station.” Her gaze sharpened on Pollux. “I offered the female the chance to press charges—but she declined. I can only assume she is aware of what a circus it would be, and is frightened of the consequences for herself and her loved ones. I plan to fix that in this city.

This territory. Even if it means making an example of one of my triarii.”

Hunt’s blood roiled, howling. Maybe this would be it. Maybe Pollux

would finally get what was coming to him.

But Celestina’s throat worked. “I received a call this morning, however,

and have seen the wisdom in … granting you a second chance.”

“What?” Hunt blurted.

Pollux bowed his head in a mockery of gratitude. “The Asteri are

benevolent masters.”

A muscle ticked in Celestina’s smooth cheek. “They are indeed.” Naomi asked, “What about that one?” She gestured toward Baxian, who

glared at her.

Celestina said, “I would like to grant you a second chance as well,

Helhound.”

“I defended that female,” Baxian snapped. “You did, and I commend you for that. But you did so in a public way

that drew attention.” Not only the city’s attention. The Asteri’s.

Again, Celestina’s throat bobbed.

Isaiah asked a shade gently, “What can we do to help clean up this

mess?”

She kept her stare on her wooden desk, thick lashes nearly grazing her

high cheekbones. “It is already done. To give the media something else to focus on, the Asteri have blessed me with an opportunity. A gift.”

Even Pollux dropped his simpering bullshit to angle his head. Hunt

braced himself. This couldn’t be good.

Celestina smiled, and Hunt saw it for the forced expression it was. “I

am to mate Ephraim. With two Archangels now dead, there is a need to … replenish the ranks. On the Autumnal Equinox, we shall have our mating ceremony here in Lunathion.”

A month away. The holiday known as Death’s Day was a lively one,

despite its name: it was a day of balance between the light and dark, when the veil between the living and dead was thinnest. Cthona began her preparations for her upcoming slumber then, but in Lunathion, raging costume parties were held along the Istros River at the various Sailing points. The biggest party of all surrounded the Black Dock, where lanterns were sent across the water to the Bone Quarter, along with offerings of food and drink. It had been a total shitshow every time Hunt had flown above the festivities. He could only imagine what Bryce would wear. Something as irreverent as possible, he imagined.

Celestina went on, “He shall stay here for a few weeks, then return to

his territory. After that, he and I shall alternate visiting each other’s territories.” Until a baby was born, no doubt.

Naomi asked, “This is a good thing, right?”

Celestina again gave them that forced smile. “Ephraim has been my

friend for many years and is a fair and wise male. I can think of no better partner.”

Hunt sensed the lie. But such was the lot of Archangels: should the

Asteri decide they were to breed, they obeyed.

“Congratulations?” Isaiah said, and Celestina laughed. “Yes, I suppose those are in order,” she said. But her amusement faded

upon facing Pollux—the cause of this. He’d embarrassed this city, embarrassed her, and the Asteri had taken notice. And now she would pay.

Not for what Pollux had tried to do to that female, but for getting caught by the public. The Asteri would take this opportunity to remind her exactly how much control they had over her. Her life. Her body.

Hunt didn’t know why they bothered to care, why they’d gone so far

out of their way to prove a point, but … nothing surprised him where they were concerned. Hunt’s blood began to heat, his temper with it. Fucking monsters.

“With my mating announcement, we will have a media frenzy. The

ceremony and party will be a high-profile event. Royals and dignitaries will attend, along with Ephraim’s retinue.”

Pollux straightened at that, delight in his bruised eyes. Celestina leveled

that cold stare at him again. “I hope that with the Hind coming to visit, you will refrain from behaving as you did last night.”

Baxian snorted. “Never stopped him before.” Pollux bared his teeth again, but Celestina went on, “Hunt, I’d like a

word with you. The rest of you are dismissed.” Hunt froze, but said nothing as the others filed out. Isaiah and Naomi gave him warning looks before shutting the doors behind them.

Alone with his Archangel, Hunt forced himself to breathe. To keep

steady.

She was going to rip into him for not controlling Baxian last night. For

not being there to stop him from brawling, even if he’d been given no order to watch over him at all hours of the day. The punishment was coming, he could sense it—

“The Autumn King informed me of Miss Quinlan’s engagement to

Crown Prince Cormac of Avallen,” Celestina said.

Hunt blinked.

She continued, “I was hoping you could provide insight into the

situation, considering that they will be expected to attend my mating celebration together.”

He hadn’t thought of that. That this would even be something to

discuss. And after what they’d done last night … Could he stomach it, seeing her in the arms of another male, even if it was just pretend?

“It’s an arranged marriage,” Hunt said. “Their fathers insist.” “I’d assumed so.” Celestina’s mouth tightened. “I’m curious how you

are feeling. You and Miss Quinlan are close.”

“Yeah. We are.” Hunt rubbed his neck. “We’re dealing with it day by

day,” he admitted.

Celestina studied him, and Hunt made himself hold her gaze. Found

nothing but … consideration and worry there. “You are exactly as I thought you’d be.”

Hunt arched a brow.

Celestina’s eyes fell to her hands, fingers twisting. “Shahar was my

friend, you know. My dearest friend. We kept it quiet. The Asteri wouldn’t have approved. Shahar was already defying them in small ways when she and I became close, and she thought they would see our friendship as an alliance and try to … stop it.”

Hunt’s heart stumbled. “She never said anything.” “Our correspondence over the years was covert. And when you rebelled

… I had nothing to offer her. My legion in Nena is—was—an extension of the Asteri’s forces.”

“You could have offered your own power.” Fuck, one more Archangel

fighting with them that day—

“I have lived with the consequences of my choice since then,” Celestina

said.

“Why are you telling me this?” “Because I heard the whispers that you did what I had longed to do

since I learned about Shahar’s death at Sandriel’s hands. What I longed to do every time I had to sit in the Asteri’s council room and listen to Sandriel spit on her sister’s memory.”

Holy shit. “And I would like to apologize for my failure to extract you from the

masters who held you in the years after Shahar fell.”

“That’s not your fault.” “I tried—but it wasn’t enough.” Hunt’s brows bunched. “What?” She set her hands on the desk. Interlaced her fingers. “I amassed funds

to … purchase you, but the Asteri denied me. I tried three times. I had to stop a century ago—it would have raised suspicions had I continued.”

She had sympathized with the Fallen. With his cause. “All for Shahar?” “I couldn’t let someone she cared for rot away like that. I wish …” She

blew out a breath. “I wish they’d let me buy you. So many things might be different now.”

It could all be a lie. A lovely, clever lie to get him to trust her. If she’d

sympathized with the Fallen, did she share the same sentiments about the Ophion rebels? If he told her all that was brewing in this city, would she damn them or help them?

“The doubt in your eyes shames me.” For all the world, she sounded

like she meant it.

“I just find it hard to believe that during all the shit I went through,

someone was out there, trying to help me.”

“I understand. But perhaps I might atone for my failures now. I’d like

us to be … friends.”

Hunt opened his mouth, then shut it. “Thank you.” He meant it, he

realized.

Celestina smiled, like she understood it, too. “I’m at your disposal

should you need anything. Anything at all.”

He weighed the kind expression on her face. Did she know about

Ophion and Cormac and Sofie? She’d somehow learned about him killing Sandriel, so she clearly was able to attain secret information.

Hunt breathed deeply, calming himself as he said again, “Thank you.”

He rose from his chair. “Since we’re being honest here … Sandriel’s old triarii is poison. I don’t know why Baxian is suddenly playing good guy, but I’m sorry I wasn’t there to rein him in last night.”

“I don’t hold you accountable for that.” Something tight eased in Hunt’s chest. He went on, “Okay, but the rest

… They’re dangerous people. Worse than the Princes of Hel.”

She chuckled. “You compare them like you know from experience.”

He did. But he hedged, “I hunted demons for years. I know a monster

when I see one. So when the Harpy and the Hawk and the Hind come for the mating party … I’m begging you to be careful. To protect the people of this city. We might give Baxian shit about standing by while Pollux terrorized people, but … I had to stand by, too. I’ve seen what Pollux does, what he delights in. The Harpy is his female counterpart. The Hawk is secretive and dangerous. And the Hind …”

“I know very well what manner of threat Lidia Cervos poses.” Even Archangels feared the Hind. What she might learn. And Celestina,

secret friend to Shahar, who still cared about her friend centuries later, who carried the guilt of not helping … “Whatever you need,” Hunt said quietly, “anything you need to get through this mating ceremony, to deal with Sandriel’s cabal, you let me know.”

Perhaps the Asteri had redistributed Sandriel’s triarii here not only to

balance out the numbers, but to plant allies and spies. To report on Hunt— and Celestina.

She nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Hunt.” He strode for the door, tucking in his wings. He halted at the doorway.

“You don’t need to feel guilty, you know. About the shit that happened to me.”

She angled her head. “Why?” He gave her a half smile. “If I’d gone to you in Nena, I never would

have come here. To Lunathion.” His smile broadened as he walked out. “I never would have met Bryce.”

And every horror, every nightmare … all of it had been worth it for her.

Hunt found Baxian waiting at the end of the hallway, the male’s arms crossed, bruised face solemn. “How’d your special time go?” Baxian asked by way of greeting.

“What the fuck do you want?” Hunt strode toward the veranda at the far

end of the hall. He’d pay Bryce a lunchtime visit. Maybe they’d get naked.

That sounded really fucking good.

“The old gang’s getting back together in a few weeks. I assume you

were warning Celestina about it.”

“You’re a bunch of sadistic psychos.” Hunt stepped onto the empty

veranda. The wind whipped at his hair, carrying the fresh scent of the Istros from across the city. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon, and lightning danced in his veins. “I’d hardly call you the old gang.”

Baxian’s mouth twitched upward, bruises stretching.

Hunt said, “I’m not buying whatever bullshit you’re selling by beating

the Hel out of Pollux.”

“New city, new rules,” Baxian said, black feathers rustling. “New boss,

who doesn’t seem to like Pollux all that much.”

“So?” Hunt spread his wings. “So I don’t have to pretend anymore,” Baxian said. He lifted his face to

the darkening sky. “Storm’s coming. Be careful up there.”

“Thanks for your concern.” Hunt flapped once, feet lifting. “I’m not trying to fuck you over.” “You’re trying to be a pain in my ass, then?” Baxian snorted. “Yeah, I guess.” Hunt settled back to the ground. “What was that shit with you and

Pollux—about his seconds?”

Baxian slid his hands into his pockets. “He’s a jealous fucker. You know

that.”

Hunt could think of only one person Pollux had ever shown any

preference for beyond Sandriel. “You have a thing for the Hind?”

Baxian barked a laugh. “Fuck no. Pollux is the only person insane

enough to go near her. I wouldn’t touch Lidia with a ten-foot pole.”

Hunt studied the male who had been his enemy for so long he’d lost

track of the years. Something had changed. Something big, and primal, and … “What the fuck went on with Sandriel after I left?”

Baxian smirked. “Who says it had anything to do with Sandriel?” “Why can’t anyone give me a direct answer these days?” Baxian cocked a brow. Thunder growled its warning in the distance.

“You tell me your secrets, Athalar, and I’ll tell you mine.”

Hunt flipped him off. He didn’t bother saying goodbye before launching

into the darkening sky.

But he couldn’t shake the sense that Baxian continued to watch him. As

if he’d left something vital hanging in the balance. It seemed only a matter of time before it returned to bite him in the ass.

23

Ithan kept a step back from the small crowd of mer emergency workers gathered around Captain Ketos—and the body. He’d scented death before they’d even approached the pristine stretch of the Istros an hour north of Lunathion, a pretty green spot amid the oaks of the small forest. They’d taken wave skimmers up the Blue, as this section of the river was nearly inaccessible by foot. He supposed he might have made the run easily in his wolf form, but after getting one sniff of the corpse from a mile downriver, he was glad not to be in that body.

“Selkie female,” Tharion was saying to the small group assembled,

wiping the sweat from his brow. Even in the shadow of the mighty oaks, the sun baked the forest into kindling.

Ithan swigged from his canteen. He should have worn shorts and

sandals instead of the black jeans and boots of the Aux. He had no business wearing these clothes anyway.

Tharion went on, surveying the little heap by the river’s edge. It had

been found this morning by a passing otter. “Killed execution-style.”

Death was nothing new. Ithan just wished he hadn’t become so well

acquainted with it that at age twenty-two, it was already something he barely batted an eye at. But that was the life of a wolf. Of a Holstrom.

Tharion pointed. “Gorsian bullet to the right thigh to keep her from

shifting into her seal form, then a slow bleed-out from a slice to her left femoral artery. Repeated lacerations indicate the murderer reopened the thigh incision continuously to keep her bleeding until she died.”

Cthona spare him. “Or until whoever it was got their answers,” Ithan

said.

The group—three of Tharion’s people—turned his way. He’d been

brought for one reason—to use his nose. Apparently, that hadn’t included speaking.

“Or that,” Tharion said, crossing his arms with a pointedness that said: Keep it quiet; I have the same instinct you do about this.

At least, that was what Ithan thought it conveyed. He’d gotten pretty

good at assessing others’ expressions and tells thanks to his years on the sunball field.

Tharion said to the group, “Right. Continue documenting the scene,

then let’s see if we can find a name for her.” People peeled away to follow his orders, and Tharion stepped aside to sniff the air.

A male voice spoke from Ithan’s left. “Hey, you used to play sunball,

right?” Ithan found a ruddy-faced mer in a blue BCIU windbreaker standing a few feet away, a walkie-talkie in hand.

Ithan grunted. “Yeah.” “For CCU—you were that Holstrom kid.” Were. Everything in his life was were these days. You were Connor’s

brother. You were part of a pack. You were in the Aux. You were a sunball player. You were Bryce’s friend. You were normal. You were happy.

“One and only.” “Why’d you quit? You could be, like, MVP in the pros right now.” Ithan didn’t smile, tried his best to appear disinterested. “Had other

plans.”

“Than playing sunball professionally?” The male gaped. As if a selkie’s

ravaged body didn’t lie mere feet away.

Everyone was watching now. Ithan had grown up with eyes on him like

that—had triumphed and failed spectacularly in front of thousands of people, day after day, for years. It didn’t make it easier.

“Holstrom.” Tharion’s voice cut through the air, mercifully drawing

him from the conversation. Ithan gave the male a nod and aimed for where the captain stood beside the river. Tharion murmured, “Smell anything?”

Ithan inhaled. Blood and rot and water and iron and— Another sniff, taking him deeper, pulling back layers. Salt and water

and seal. That was the selkie. Then— “There’s a human scent here. On her.”

He pointed to the selkie left amid the leaves and bone-dry brush. “Two of them.”

Tharion said nothing, idly twirling a ribbon of water between his

fingers. The mer were similar to the water sprites in that regard—able to summon water from thin air.

Ithan began to pace through the clearing, careful of the tracks—noting

and scenting the slight disturbances in the dirt and leaves and sticks.

He sniffed again, brain downloading and sorting all those scents. “Wouldn’t your wolf form be easier?” Tharion asked, leaning against a

tree.

“No,” Ithan lied, and kept moving. He couldn’t bear to take that form,

to feel that empty-souled wolf.

He sniffed a few more times, then stalked up to Tharion and said

quietly, “There’s a human female scent all over this scene. But the second scent—it’s a human male. A little strange, but human.” Exactly as Ithan would have described a part-thunderbird human. “It’s only on the selkie. A little whiff.”

“So what does that tell you?” Tharion asked with equal quiet,

monitoring the others documenting the crime scene.

“My guess?” “Yeah, tell me your gut impressions.” Ithan noted the mer around him. Their hearing might not be as keen as

his, but … “I think we should be somewhere more secure.”

Tharion made a hmm of contemplation. Then he called to the group of

investigators, “Any further insights, kids?”

No one answered.

Tharion sighed. “All right. Let’s get her bagged up and brought back to

the lab. I want tests done as soon as possible, along with an ID.”

The others broke apart, heading to the aquatic vehicles lined up along

the Blue River’s edge, tethered in place with their water magic. Leaving Ithan and Tharion with the body.

The mer male arched a brow. “I need to head to the Blue Court, but I’d

like to hear your findings while they’re fresh. Do you have time?”

“I got nothing but time,” Ithan answered.

He wondered when having all that time would stop feeling like such a

chore.

“So, let’s hear it,” Tharion said as he slumped into his office chair and turned on his computer.

Ithan Holstrom stood at the wall of glass, gazing out at the deep blue of

the Istros, observing the fish and otters dart past. The wolf had said little while Tharion had brought him Beneath, though from his wide eyes, it was clear he’d never been here before.

Ithan said without turning, “Let’s assume the players involved are the

ones we think they are. I think the selkie found the kid, helped him on his way toward Lunathion. Not soon afterward, given how his scent is still on her clothes, the selkie was found and tortured by a human woman for intel on Emile’s location. From what we know about her, my guess is Pippa Spetsos.”

Tharion’s mouth twisted to the side. “My techs said the kill was about a

day old. That line up with your info?”

“Yeah, though probably less than a day. But the kid’s scent on her

clothes was older than that. Only by six hours or so.”

“Why?” Tharion propped his chin on his hands. “Because she couldn’t have gone in the water—or changed her clothes,

if the scent was still on her. As far as I know, selkies rarely go a day before shifting and swimming. The water would have washed the kid’s scent from her.”

Tharion considered, turning over the information in his mind. “We

didn’t pick up any tracks from the kid in the clearing, though.”

“No,” Ithan agreed, turning back to him. “Emile was never in that

clearing. The selkie must have come there afterward.”

Tharion peered at the map of Crescent City and its surrounding lands

behind his desk. “That spot is between the boat I investigated and the city.

If he linked up with the selkie somewhere around there, he is indeed moving toward Lunathion. And if that kill is less than a day old, he might have just gotten here.”

“And Pippa Spetsos, if that’s whose scent was on the female, could be

here as well.”

“Or one of her soldiers, I guess,” Tharion admitted. “Either way,

Lightfall is near. We need to be careful.”

“Pippa is a human woman.”

“She’s a dangerous rebel, capable of killing Vanir thanks to those

gorsian bullets. And a psychopath who delights in killing even the most innocent. We’re not going near her without prep and thought.” Hopefully they would find Emile first and not need to deal with Pippa at all.

Ithan snorted. “We can take her. My brother took down Philip Briggs.” “Something tells me Pippa might be worse than Briggs.” “Come on,” Ithan said, scoffing.

Tharion didn’t bother to keep the gravity from his face. “I like being

alive. I’m not going to risk death because you’ve got an outsize view of your wolf skills.”

“Fuck you.” Tharion shrugged. “My river, my rules, pup.” Thunder from far above echoed in the quiet halls, rattling even the thick

glass.

“I can go after her on my own.” Tharion smirked. “Not while you’re stuck down here.” Ithan sized him up. “Really? You’d trap me?” “For your own safety, yeah. You know what Bryce would do to me if

you wound up dead? I’d never get to fondle her underwear again.”

Ithan gaped at him. Then burst out laughing. It was a rich sound, a little

hoarse—like he hadn’t done it in a while. “I’m surprised Athalar lets you live.”

“You know what Bryce would do to Hunt if I wound up dead?” Tharion

grinned. “My sweet Legs has my back.”

“Why do you call her that?” Ithan asked cautiously.

Tharion shrugged again. “You really want me to answer that?” “No.” Tharion smirked. “Anyway, the real question is whether Emile is

headed toward the place Danika hinted at in her email.”

Holstrom had already filled him in on the papers and news clippings he

and Bryce had uncovered yesterday, but none had any link to a potential rendezvous location.

The door to Tharion’s office opened, and one of his officers, Kendra,

strode in. The blond sentinel stopped short upon seeing Ithan, hair swaying around her. She looked to Tharion, who nodded. She was free to speak around the wolf.

“Boss wants you in her quarters. She’s, ah … in a mood.” Fuck. “I thought I heard thunder.” Tharion jerked his chin at the door as

Kendra left. “There’s a lounge down this hall on the left. Feel free to watch TV, help yourself to snacks, whatever. I’ll be back … soon. Then we can start sniffing around for the kid.” And hopefully avoid Pippa Spetsos.

He used the walk to his queen’s quarters to steady his nerves against

whatever storm was brewing. It had to be bad, if it was raining Above during the dry summer months.

Bryce fanned her face in the summer heat, thanking Ogenas, Bringer of Storms, for the rain that was moments away from falling. Or whatever Vanir might be throwing a temper tantrum. Judging by how swiftly the storm had swept in to ruin the otherwise flawless blue sky, odds were on the latter.

“It’s not that hot,” Ruhn observed as they walked down the sidewalk

toward the Aux training facility on the edge of the Old Square and Moonwood. The empty, cavernous chamber was usually used for large meetings, but he’d reserved it once a week at this hour for their standing training.

They’d have a newcomer today. At least, if Prince Cormac deigned to

show up to begin her training, as he’d promised.

“I don’t know how you’re wearing a leather jacket,” Bryce said, her

sweaty thighs sticking together with each step.

“Gotta hide the weapons,” Ruhn said, patting the holsters beneath the

leather jacket. “Can’t have the tourists getting skittish.”

“You literally carry a sword.” “That has a different impact on people than a gun.” True. Randall had taught her that a long time ago. Swords could mean

hope, resistance, strength. Guns meant death. They were to be respected, but only as weapons of killing, even in defense.

Bryce’s phone rang, and she checked the caller ID before shutting off

the ringer and sliding it into her pocket.

“Who’s that?” Ruhn asked, glancing at her sidelong as thunder

grumbled. People began clearing the streets, darting into shops and buildings to avoid the downpour. With the arid climate, summer storms were usually violent and swift, prone to flooding the streets.

“My mom,” Bryce said. “I’ll call her later.” She fished out a postcard

from her purse and waved it at Ruhn. “She’s probably calling about this.”

“A postcard?” On the front, it said Greetings from Nidaros! in a cheery

font.

Bryce slid it back into her purse. “Yeah. It’s a thing from when I was a

kid. We’d get into a huge fight, and my mom would send me postcards as a weird kind of apology. Like, we might not be talking in person, but we’d start communicating again through postcards.”

“But you were living in the same house?” Bryce laughed again. “Yeah. She’d put them under my door and I’d put

them under hers. We’d write about everything but the fight. We kept doing it when I went to CCU, and afterward.” Bryce riffled through her bag and pulled out a blank postcard of an otter waving that said, Keep It Fuzzy, Lunathion! “I’m going to send her one later. Seems easier than a phone call.”

He asked, “Are you going to tell her about … everything?” “Are you crazy?” “What about the engagement being a ruse? Surely that’d get her off

your back.”

“Why do you think I’m avoiding her calls?” Bryce asked. “She’ll say

I’m playing with fire. Literally, considering Cormac’s power. There’s no winning with her.”

Ruhn chuckled. “You know, I would have really liked to have her as my

stepmom.”

Bryce snickered. “Weird. You’re, like, twenty years older than her.” “Doesn’t mean I don’t need a mom to kick my ass every now and then.”

He said it with a grin, but … Ruhn’s relationship with his own mother was strained. She wasn’t cruel, merely out to lunch. Ruhn took care of her these days. He knew his father certainly wouldn’t.

Bryce spoke before she had the chance to consider it. “I’m thinking of

going home to Nidaros for the Winter Solstice. Hunt’s coming. You want to join?” Now that she and Hunt had adjusted their timeline, Bryce supposed she could be a decent human being and go home for the holiday.

That is, if her mom forgave her for the engagement. And not telling her

about it.

Rain splattered the pavement, but Ruhn stopped. His eyes filled with

such hope and happiness that Bryce’s chest hurt. But he said, “Bringing Hunt home, huh?”

She couldn’t help her blush. “Yep.” “Big step, bringing home the boyfriend.” She waved him off, but cringed at the rain that now became a deluge.

They still had five blocks to the training center. “Let’s wait it out,” she said, ducking under an empty restaurant’s awning. The Istros lay a block away, close enough that Bryce could see the veils of rain lashing its surface. Even the mer weren’t out in this.

Rain streamed off the awning, thick as a waterfall, joining the veritable

river already flowing down to the gaping sewer entrance at the corner of the block. Ruhn said over the din, “You really want me to come home with you?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” Assuming they were still alive by

December. If this rebellion shit hadn’t killed them all.

Ruhn’s tattooed throat bobbed. “Thanks. I normally spend it with Dec

and his family, but … I don’t think they’ll mind if I skip this year.”

She nodded, awkward silence setting in. They usually had the training

to occupy them during any tense silences, but now, trapped by the rain … she kept quiet, waiting to see what Ruhn might say.

“Why won’t you touch the Starsword?” She twisted, gesturing to the black hilt of the blade peeking over his

shoulder. “It’s yours.”

“It’s yours, too.” “I’ve got Danika’s sword. And you found it first. Doesn’t seem fair of

me to claim it.”

“You’re more Starborn than I am. You should have it.” “That’s bullshit.” She backed up a step. “I don’t want it.” She could

have sworn the rain, the wind, paused. Seemed to listen. Even the temperature seemed to drop.

“Aidas said you’ve got the light of the true Starborn Queen. I’m just the

heir to some rapist asshole.”

“Does it matter? I like that you’re the Chosen One.” “Why?”

“Because …” She hooked her hair behind her ears, then fiddled with the

hem of her T-shirt. “I already have this star on my chest.” She touched the scar gently. The hair on her arms rose as if in answer. “I don’t need a fancy sword to add to it.”

“But I do?” “Honestly? I think you don’t know how special you are, Ruhn.” His blue eyes flickered. “Thanks.” “I mean it.” She grabbed his hand, and light flared from her chest. “The

sword came to you first for a reason. When was the last time two Starborn royals lived peacefully side by side? There’s that dumb prophecy that the Fae have: When knife and sword are reunited, so shall our people be. You have the Starsword. What if … I don’t know. What if there’s a knife out there for me? But beyond that, what’s Urd playing at? Or is it Luna? What’s the end goal?”

“You think the gods have something to do with all this?” Again, the hair on her arms rose; the star on her chest dimmed and went

dark. She turned to the rain-lashed street. “After this spring, I can’t help but wonder if there is something out there. Guiding all this. If there’s some game afoot that’s … I don’t know. Bigger than anything we can grasp.”

“What do you mean?” “Hel is another world. Another planet. Aidas said so—months ago, I

mean. The demons worship different gods than we do, but what happens when the worlds overlap? When demons come here, do their gods come with them? And all of us, the Vanir … we all came from elsewhere. We were immigrants into Midgard. But what became of our home worlds? Our home gods? Do they still pay attention to us? Remember us?”

Ruhn rubbed his jaw. “This is some seriously sacrilegious shit for a

lunchtime conversation. The postcards with your mom, I can handle. This? I need some coffee.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes, unable to suppress the chill

down her spine. “I just have this feeling.” Ruhn said nothing, and she opened her eyes again.

Ruhn was gone.

A rotted, veilless Reaper, black cloak and robes clinging to its bony

body, rain sluicing down its sagging, grayish face, was dragging her

unconscious brother across the drenched street. Its acid-green eyes glowed as if lit by Helfire.

The rain must have covered the creature’s approach. The hair on her

arms had been raised but she’d chalked it up to their dangerous conversation. No one was on the street—was it because everyone had somehow sensed the Reaper?

With a roar, Bryce darted into the driving rain, but she was too late. The

Reaper shoved Ruhn into the gaping sewer drain with too-long fingers that ended in cracked, jagged nails, and slithered in after him.

24

Ruhn drifted.

One breath, he’d been talking to Bryce about gods and fate and all that

shit. The next, something cold and rotting had breathed in his ear and he’d found himself here in this black void, no up or down.

What the fuck had happened? Something had jumped him and fuck,

Bryce— Night.

The female voice flitted in from everywhere and nowhere.

Night, open your eyes.

He twisted toward the voice. Daybright?

Open your eyes. Wake up.

What happened? How did you find my mind? I don’t have the crystal.

I have no idea what happened to you. Or how I found your mind. I

simply felt … I don’t know what I felt, but the bridge was suddenly there. I think you’re in grave danger, wherever you are.

Her voice echoed from above, from below, from within his bones.

I don’t know how to wake up.

Open your eyes.

No shit.

She barked, Wake up! Now!

Something familiar echoed in her voice—he couldn’t place it.

And then she was there, burning flame, as if the link between their

minds had solidified. Bright as a bonfire, her hair floated around her head.

Like they were both underwater.

Get up! she roared, flames crackling.

Why do I know your voice?

I can assure you, you don’t. And you are about to be dead if you don’t

wake up.

Your scent— You can’t smell me.

I can. I know it.

I have never met you, and you have never met me— How can you know

that, if you don’t know who I am?

OPEN YOUR EYES!

There was blackness, and the bellow of pouring water. That was Bryce’s first, pathetic assessment of the sewer as she plunged into the subterranean river rushing beneath the city.

She didn’t let herself think of what swam or floated in the water as she

splashed for the stone path running along its side, hauling herself up as she scanned for the Reaper. For Ruhn.

Nothing but dimness, the faint trickle of light from the sewer grates

overhead. She peered inward, to the star in her chest. Inhaled sharply. And when she exhaled, light bloomed.

It cast the sewer in stark relief, silvering the stones, the brown water,

the arched ceiling— Well, she’d found her brother.

And five Reapers.

The Reapers floated over the sewer’s river, black robes drifting. Ruhn,

unconscious, dangled between two of them. The Starsword was still strapped to him. Either they were too stupid to disarm him, or they didn’t want to touch it.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bryce stepped closer. Water poured from

the grates above, the river rising swiftly.

“We bear a message,” the Reapers intoned together. Like they were of

one mind.

“Easier ways to send it than this,” she spat, advancing another step. “No further,” they warned, and Ruhn dropped an inch for emphasis.

Like they’d dump his unconscious ass into the water and let him drown.

One of the Reapers drifted closer to Ruhn as they caught him. The hilt

of the Starsword brushed against its robes. It hissed, recoiling.

Okay, they definitely didn’t want to touch the sword.

Yet that became the least of her worries as five more Reapers drifted out

of the darkness behind her. She reached for the phone in her back pocket, but the Reapers holding Ruhn dropped him another inch. “None of that,” they said, the sound echoing from all around.

Wake up, she willed Ruhn. Wake the fuck up and rip these shitheads

apart.

“What do you want?” she asked again. “The Prince of the Pit sent us.” Her blood chilled. “You don’t serve him. I doubt your king would be

happy about it.”

“We bear his message nonetheless.” “Put Prince Ruhn down and we can talk.” “And have you use the star on us? We think not.” She pivoted, trying to keep them all in her sights. Ruhn might survive

being dumped in the river, but there were limits. How long could a Vanir who’d made the Drop go without oxygen? Or would it be a torturous process of drowning, healing, and drowning again, until even their immortal strength was spent and they finally died?

She didn’t want to find out. “What’s your message?” she demanded. “Apollion, Prince of the Pit, is ready to strike.” Her blood iced over to hear the name spoken aloud. “He’s going to

launch a war?” Aidas had said something like that yesterday, but he’d indicated that the armies would be for her. She’d thought he meant to help in whatever insanity Hel had planned.

The Prince of the Pit wants a worthy opponent this time. One who will

not break so easily, as Prince Pelias did so long ago. He insists on facing you, Starborn, at your full power.”

Bryce barked a laugh. “Tell him I was literally on my way to training

before you half-lives interrupted me.” But her bones quaked to say it, to think about who they represented. “Tell him you just knocked out my tutor.”

“Train harder. Train better. He is waiting.” “Thanks for the pep talk.” “Your disrespect is not appreciated.” “Yeah, well, your kidnapping my brother is definitely not appreciated.”

They seethed with ire and Bryce cringed. “The Prince of the Pit already

hunts through the Bone Quarter’s mists to find the other one who might be his worthy opponent … or his greatest weapon.”

Bryce opened her mouth, but shut it before she could blurt Emile? But

fuck—Apollion was hunting for the kid, too? Was the Bone Quarter what Danika had meant after all? Her mind raced, plan after plan spreading out, then she said, “I’m surprised the Under-King lets Apollion wander around his territory unchecked.”

“Even the caretakers of the dead bow to the Prince of the Pit.” Bryce’s heart sank. Emile was in the Bone Quarter. Or at least Apollion

thought so. What the fuck had Danika been thinking, telling Sofie it was safe there?

Before Bryce could ask more, the Reapers said as one, “You sold your

soul away, Bryce Quinlan. When it is your time, we shall come to rip it to shreds.”

“It’s a date.” She had to find some way to grab Ruhn, to be faster,

smarter than them— “Perhaps we shall have a taste of you now.” They surged forward.

Bryce flared her light, falling against the curved wall of the tunnel.

Water lapped over the edge of the walkway, spilling toward her neon-pink sneakers.

The Reapers exploded back, but despite their threats, kept Ruhn

between them. So Bryce rallied that power inside her, let it crest in a blink, and then— Another blast. Not from her, but somewhere else. A blast of pure night.

One moment a Reaper stood close to her. Then it was gone. Vanished

into nothing. The others screeched, but— Bryce shouted as Cormac appeared out of nothing, hovering over the river, arms around another Reaper—and vanished once more.

Again, he appeared. Again, he took another Reaper with him and

vanished.

What was already dead could not be killed. But they could be …

removed. Or whatever the fuck he was doing.

Cormac appeared again, blond hair shining, and yelled, “USE THE

FUCKING LIGHT!”

She caught the direction of his stare: Ruhn. The Reapers who still held

him aloft.

Bryce punched out her power, flaring bright as a supernova. The

Reapers screamed and made good on their threat, hurling Ruhn toward the raging water— Cormac caught Ruhn before he hit the frothing surface.

Vanished again.

The Reapers whirled, screeching and hissing. Bryce flared her light

anew, and they scattered into the darkest shadows.

Then Cormac returned, and tossed something to her—the Starsword. He

must have taken it from Ruhn. Bryce didn’t stop to think as she unsheathed it. Starlight erupted from the black blade. Like its metal had been kindled with iridescent fire.

A Reaper lunged, and Bryce swept the sword up, a blind, unwieldy

block that she knew would have horrified Randall.

But blade met cloth and rotting flesh and ancient bone. And for the first

time, perhaps the only time in that world, a Reaper bled.

It screamed, the sound as piercing as a hawk’s cry. The others keened in

horror and rage.

The Starsword sang with light, her power flowing into it. Activating it.

And nothing had ever felt so right, so easy, as plunging the blade into the bony chest of the wounded Reaper. It arced, bellowing, black blood spurting from its withered lips.

The others screamed then. So loud she thought the sewer might come

down, so loud she nearly dropped the blade to cover her ears.

The Reapers surged, but Cormac appeared before her in a plume of

shadows. He grabbed her around the middle, nearly tackling her, and they were gone.

Wind roared and the world spun out from beneath her, but— They landed inside the Aux training center. Ruhn was coughing on the

floor beside her, the polished pine scrubbed clean except where the three of them dripped sewer water.

“You can fucking teleport?” Bryce gasped out, twisting to where

Cormac stood.

But Cormac’s gaze was on the Starsword, his face ashen. Bryce peered

at the blade she clenched in a white-knuckled grip. As if her hand refused to let go.

With shaking fingers, she put it back into its sheath. Dimmed its light.

But the Starsword still sang, and Bryce had no idea what to make of it.

Of the blade that had slain that which was unkillable.

PART II

THE ABYSS

25

Tharion warily watched the two sobeks lounging at his queen’s feet, their scaly, powerful bodies draped over the dais steps. With their shut eyes, only the bubbles drifting from their long snouts revealed they lived—and were capable of snapping his arm off in one swift bite.

The River Queen’s throne had been carved into a towering mountain of

river corals rising from the rocky floor. Lunathion lay close enough to the coast that the water in this part of the Istros had plenty of salt to support the vibrant corals, as well as the bouquets of anemones, waving lace sea fans, and the occasional rainbow ribbons of iris eels all adorning the mount around and above her. He had a feeling her magic had also created a good chunk of it.

Tail pumping against the strong current that flowed past, Tharion bowed

his head. “Your Majesty.” At this point, the effort against the current was second nature, but he knew she’d selected this location for her throne so that any person appearing before her would be a bit off-kilter—and perhaps less guarded as a result. “You summoned me?”

“It has come to my attention,” his queen said, her dark hair drifting

above her, “that you asked my daughter on a date.”

Tharion focused on keeping his tail moving, holding him in place. “Yes.

I thought she’d enjoy it.”

“You asked her on a date Above. Above!” Tharion lifted his chin, hands clasped behind his back. A subservient,

vulnerable position that he knew his queen preferred, exposing the entirety of his chest to her. His heart lay in range of the jagged sea-glass knife

resting on the arm of her throne, or the beasts drowsing at her feet. She had the power to destroy him in an instant, but he knew she liked the feel of the kill.

He’d never understood it, until he’d found his sister’s murderer and

opted to tear the panther shifter apart with his bare hands.

“I only meant to please her,” Tharion said.

But the River Queen’s fingers dug into the carved arms of her throne.

“You know how overwhelmed she becomes. She is too fragile for such things.”

Tharion sucked in a deep breath through his gills. Exhaled it before

saying, “She handled herself well at the Summit.” A half-lie. She’d done absolutely nothing of value at the Summit, but at least she hadn’t been cowering the whole time.

Anemones shrank into themselves, a swift warning of his queen’s ire

before she said, “That was in an organized, guarded place. Lunathion is a wild forest of distraction and pleasure. It will devour her whole.” The iris eels sensed her tone and darted into the cracks and crevices around the throne.

“I apologize for any distress the suggestion caused you or her.” He

didn’t dare so much as curl his fingers into a fist.

The queen studied him with the concentration of one of the sobeks at

her feet, when the beasts were poised to strike. “What of your progress with the Renast boy?”

“I have good reason to believe he’s just arrived in this city. I have my

people looking for him.” They hadn’t found any new bodies today—for better or worse. He could only pray it didn’t mean Pippa Spetsos had gotten her hands on the boy.

“I want that boy at the Blue Court the moment he’s found.” Pippa or the River Queen. Above or Beneath. Emile Renast’s options

were limited.

Once the kid was down here, he wouldn’t get back Above unless the

River Queen wished it. Or the Asteri dispatched one of their elite aquatic units to drag him out. But that would mean they’d learned of the River Queen’s betrayal.

But Tharion only nodded. As he had always done. As he would always

do. “We’ll apprehend Emile soon.”

“Before Ophion.” “Yes.” He didn’t dare ask why she was bothering with any of it. From

the moment she’d heard the rumors about the boy who could bring down those Omegas with his power-draining magic, she’d wanted Emile. She didn’t share her reasons. She never did.

“And before any other of the River Courts.” Tharion lifted his head at that. “You think they know about Emile, too?” “The currents whispered to me about it. I don’t see why my sisters

wouldn’t hear similar murmurings from the water.”

The queens of Valbara’s four great rivers, the Istros, the Melanthos, the

Niveus, and the Rubellus—the Blue, the Black, the White, and the Red, respectively—had long been rivals: all mighty and gifted with magic. All vain and ancient and bored.

While Tharion might not be privy to his queen’s most intimate plans, he

could only assume she wanted the boy for the same reason Pippa Spetsos did: to use him as a weapon. One that could be used to get the queens of the Black, White, and Red Courts to yield. With the boy in her thrall, she could potentially use him to siphon their powers, to turn all that elemental energy against them and expand her influence.

But if they knew of Emile as well, then did they already scheme,

thinking to take the Blue Court? And if the Queen of the Red Court wished to overthrow his queen, to use Emile’s gifts to drain her of power … would he fight it?

Years ago, he would have said Hel yes.

But now … Tharion lifted his face toward the surface. That distant, beckoning

ribbon of light.

He found her studying him again. As if she could hear every thought in

his mind. The sobek at her left cracked open an eye, revealing a slitted pupil amid green-marbled citrine.

His queen asked, “Are things so wonderful Above that you resent your

time Beneath?”

Tharion kept his face neutral, kept swishing his fins with an idle grace.

“Can’t both realms be wonderful?”

The second sobek opened an eye as well. Would they be opening their

jaws next?

They ate anything and everything. Fresh meat, trash, and, perhaps most

important, the bodies of the shameful dead. Having one’s black boat overturned on its way to the Bone Quarter was the deepest sort of humiliation and judgment: a soul deemed unworthy of entering the holy resting place, its corpse given over to the river beasts to devour.

But Tharion kept his hands clasped behind him, kept his chest exposed,

ready to be shredded apart. Let her see his utter subservience to her power.

His queen only said, “Keep searching for the boy. Report as soon as you

hear anything new.”

He bowed his head. “Of course.” He swished his fin, readying to swim

off the moment she gave the dismissal.

But the River Queen said, “And Tharion?” He couldn’t stop his swallow at the smooth, casual tone. “Yes, my

queen?”

Her full lips curved into a smile. So much like the beasts at her feet.

“Before you invite my daughter on a date Above again, I think you should witness firsthand the disrespect those Above show the citizens of the Beneath.”

The River Queen picked her punishments well. Tharion would give her that.

Swimming along the Old Square’s section of the quay an hour later, he

kept his head down as he speared trash.

He was her Captain of Intelligence. How many of his people had

already noticed him here or heard about this? He stabbed a discarded, half-decayed pizza box. It fell into three pieces before he could tuck it into the giant bag drifting behind him on the current.

The River Queen wanted Emile badly, Pippa Spetsos was leaving a trail

of bodies in her hunt for the kid, and yet this was his queen’s priority for him?

Water splashed twenty feet above, and Tharion lifted his head to find an

empty beer bottle filling—and then drifting down. Through the surface, he could just make out a blond female laughing at him.

She’d tried to fucking hit him with that bottle. Tharion rallied his

magic, smiling to himself as a plume of water showered the female, earning a host of shrieks and growls from those around her.

Ten more bottles came flying down at him.

Tharion sighed, bubbles flowing from his lips. Captain Whatever,

indeed.

The River Queen fancied herself a benevolent ruler who wanted the

best for her people, yet she treated her subjects as harshly as any Asteri.

Tharion wended between the mussel-crusted pillars of a dock, various crabs and bottom-scavengers watching him from the shadows.

Something had to change. In this world, in the hierarchies. Not only in

the way Ophion wanted, but … this imbalance of power across all Houses.

Tharion pried a bike tire—for fuck’s sake—from between two rocks,

muscles groaning. A giant blue crab scuttled over, waving its claws in reprimand. Mine! it seemed to shout. Tharion backed off, gesturing to the trash. Have at it, he conveyed with a wave of his hand, and with a powerful thrust of his tail, swam farther along the quay.

The glowing firstlights cast ripples on the surface. It was like

swimming through gold.

Something had to change. For him, at least.

Ruhn laid the Starsword on his father’s desk as the Autumn King stalked through the study doors.

The top buttons of his father’s black shirt were undone, his ordinarily

smooth red hair a bit out of place. Like someone had been running their hands through it. Ruhn shuddered.

His father eyed the sword. “What is so important that you interrupted

my afternoon meeting?”

“Is that what you’re calling it these days?” His father threw him an admonishing glance as he slid into his desk

chair, surveying the bare Starsword. “You smell like trash.”

“Thanks. It’s a new cologne I’m trying out.” Considering the insanity of

the last hour, it was a miracle he could even joke right then.

Agent Daybright had been in his mind, screaming at him to wake up.

That was all he’d known before he’d started puking water and the gods knew what else—he certainly didn’t want to know—on the Aux training center floor.

Cormac had left by the time Ruhn mastered himself, apparently wanting

to quickly search the area for any hint of Emile or Sofie. Bryce had still been in shock when Ruhn managed to ask what the fuck had happened.

But she’d told him enough—then kicked the Starsword toward him in

the empty training hall and left. Which was when he’d rushed over here.

Flame sparked at his father’s fingers—the first warning of his

impatience. So Ruhn asked, “What’s the lore behind this sword?”

His father arched a brow. “You’ve been its bearer for decades. Now you

want to know its history?”

Ruhn shrugged. His head still pounded from the blow the Reapers had

given him; his stomach churned like he’d been drinking all night. “Does it have any special powers? Weird gifts?”

The Autumn King swept a cold look over Ruhn, from his waterlogged

boots to his half-shaved head, the longer hair scraggly thanks to the sewer trip. “Something has happened.”

“Some Reapers tried to jump me, and the sword … reacted.” A light way of putting it. Had Bryce stayed away from the sword all

these years because she somehow sensed that in her hand, it would unleash horrors?

He didn’t want to know what his father would do with the truth. A

sword that could kill the unkillable. How many rulers in Midgard would scheme and murder to attain it? Starting with his father and ending with the Asteri.

Maybe they’d get lucky and the information would be contained to the

Reapers. But the Under-King …

His father stilled. “How did the sword react?” “Shouldn’t a father ask if his son is all right? And why the Reapers

attacked?”

“You appear unharmed. And I assume you did something to offend

them.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence.” “Did you?” “No.” “How did the sword react in the presence of the Reapers?” “It glowed. They ran from it.” It was only a half-lie. “Any idea why?” “They are already dead. Blades hold no threat to them.”

“Yeah, well … they freaked.” His father reached for the black blade but halted, remembering himself.

It wasn’t his blade to touch.

Ruhn reined in his smirk of satisfaction. But his father watched the

various globes and solar system models across his office for a long moment.

Ruhn spied their own solar system in the center of it all. Seven planets

around a massive star. Seven Asteri—technically six now—to rule Midgard.

Seven Princes of Hel to challenge them.

Seven Gates in this city through which Hel had tried to invade this

spring.

Seven and seven and seven and seven—always that holy number.

Always—

“It’s an ancient sword,” the Autumn King said at last, drawing Ruhn

from his wandering thoughts, “from another world. Made from the metal of a fallen star—a meteorite. This sword exists beyond our planet’s laws.

Perhaps the Reapers sensed that and shied away.”

The Reapers had learned precisely how outside the planet’s laws the

sword was. It could fucking kill them.

Ruhn opened his mouth, but his father sniffed him again. Frowned.

“And when were you going to tell me your sister was involved in this incident? She’s even more reckless than you.”

Ruhn stifled the spike of anger in his gut. “Only fit for breeding, right?” “She should consider herself lucky I believe her valuable enough for

that.”

“You should consider yourself lucky that she didn’t come in here to

kick your ass for the betrothal to Cormac.”

His father stalked to the elegant wood liquor cabinet behind his desk

and pulled out a crystal decanter of what looked and smelled like whiskey. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for days now.” He poured himself a glass, not bothering to offer Ruhn any, and knocked it back. “I suppose you convinced her not to.”

“She decided all on her own that you weren’t worth the effort.” His father’s eyes simmered as he set the glass and decanter on the edge

of his desk. “If that sword is acting up,” the Autumn King said, ignoring his barb, “I’d suggest keeping it far from your sister.”

Too late. “I offered it to her already. She didn’t want it. I don’t think

she’s interested in your politics.”

But she had run into a sewer teeming with Reapers after him. Ruhn’s

heart squeezed tight.

His father poured himself another glass of whiskey. The only sign that

something about this conversation rattled him. But the Autumn King’s voice was bland as he said, “In ancient times, Starborn rivals would slit each other’s throats. Even those of the children. She is now more powerful than you and I are, as you like to remind me.”

Ruhn resisted the urge to ask whether that had played any part in his

father’s slaying of the last Starborn heir. “Are you telling me to kill Bryce?”

His father sipped from the whiskey this time before replying, “If you

had any backbone, you would have done it the moment you learned she was Starborn. Now what are you?” Another sip before he said mildly, “A second-rate prince who only possesses the sword because she allows you to have it.”

“Pitting us against each other won’t work.” But those words—second-

rate prince—those gouged something deep in him. “Bryce and I are good.”

The Autumn King drained the glass. “Power attracts power. It is her fate

to be tied to a powerful male to match her own strength. I would rather not learn what comes of her union with the Umbra Mortis.”

“So you betrothed her to Cormac to avoid that?” “To consolidate that power for the Fae.” Ruhn slowly picked up the Starsword. Refused to meet his father’s stare

while he sheathed it down his back. “So this is what being king is all about?

That old shit about keeping friends close and enemies closer?”

“It remains to be seen whether your sister is an enemy to the Fae.” “I think the burden of that’s on you. Overstepping your authority

doesn’t help.”

His father returned the crystal decanter to the cabinet. “I am a King of

the Fae. My word is law. I cannot overstep my authority—it has no limits.”

“Maybe it should.” The words were out before Ruhn could think.

His father went still in a way that always promised pain. “And who will

impose them?”

“The Governor.”

“That doe-eyed angel?” A mirthless laugh. “The Asteri knew what they

were doing in appointing a lamb to rule a city of predators.”

“Maybe, but I bet the Asteri would agree that there are limits to your

power.”

“Why don’t you ask them, then, Prince?” He smiled slowly, cruelly.

“Maybe they’ll make you king instead.”

Ruhn knew his answer would mean his life or death. So he shrugged

again, nonchalant as always, and aimed for the door. “Maybe they’ll find a way to make you live forever. I sure as fuck have no interest in the job.”

He didn’t dare to look back before he left.

26

Bryce leaned against the alley side of a brick building bordering the Black Dock, arms crossed and face stony. Hunt, gods bless him, stood at her side, mirroring her position. He’d come right over the moment she’d called him, sensing that her eerily calm voice meant something big had gone down.

She’d only managed to say something vague about Reapers before

they’d found Cormac here, prowling for any hint of Emile.

Cormac lounged against the wall across the alley, focus on the quay

beyond. Not even the vendors selling touristy crap came here. “Well?” the Avallen Prince asked, not taking his attention from the Black Dock.

“You can teleport,” Bryce said, voice low. That made Hunt’s eyes

widen. He kept himself contained, though, solid and still as a statue, wings tucked in—but brimming with power. One blink, and Hunt would unleash lightning on the prince.

“What of it?” Cormac asked with no small hint of haughtiness. “What did you do to the Reapers you teleported out?” “Put them about half a mile up in the sky.” The Avallen Prince smiled

darkly. “They weren’t happy.”

Hunt’s brows rose. But Bryce asked, “You can go that far? It’s that

precise?”

“I need to know the spot. If it’s a trickier location—indoors, or a

specific room—I need exact coordinates,” Cormac said. “My accuracy is within two feet.”

Well, that explained how he’d shown up at Ruhn’s house party. Dec’s

tech had picked up Cormac teleporting around the house’s perimeter to

calculate where he wanted to appear to make his grand entrance. Once he’d had them, he’d simply walked right out of a shadow in the doorway.

Hunt pointed to a dumpster halfway down the alley. “Teleport there.” Cormac bowed mockingly. “Left side or right side?” Hunt leveled a cool stare at him. “Left,” he challenged. Bryce

suppressed a smile.

But Cormac bowed at the waist again—and vanished.

Within a blink, he reappeared where Hunt had indicated. “Well, fuck,” Hunt muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. Then,

Cormac reappeared before them, right where he’d been standing.

Bryce pushed off the wall. “How the Hel do you do that?” Cormac slicked back his blond hair. “You have to picture where you

want to go. Then simply allow yourself to take that step. As if you’re folding two points on a piece of paper so that the two points can meet.”

“Like a wormhole,” Hunt mused, wings rustling.

Cormac waved a dismissive hand. “Wormhole, teleportation, yes.

Whatever you want to call it.”

Bryce blew out an impressed breath. But it didn’t explain— “How’d

you know where to find me and Ruhn?”

“I was on my way to meet you, remember?” Cormac rolled his eyes, as

if she should have figured it out by now. Asshole. “I saw you run into the sewer, and I did some mental calculations for the jump. Thankfully, they were right.”

Hunt let out an approving grunt, but said nothing.

So Bryce said, “You’re going to teach me how to do that. Teleport.” Hunt whipped his head to her. But Cormac simply nodded. “If it’s

within your wheelhouse, I will.”

Hunt blurted, “I’m sorry, but Fae can just do this shit?” “I can do this shit,” Cormac countered. “If Bryce has as much Starborn

ability as she seems to, she might also be able to do this shit.”

“Why?” “Because I’m the Super Powerful and Special Magic Starborn

Princess,” Bryce answered, waggling her eyebrows.

Cormac said, “You should treat your title and gifts with the reverence

they are due.”

“You sound like a Reaper,” she said, and leaned against Hunt. He

tucked her into his side. Her clothes were still soaked. And smelled atrocious.

But Hunt didn’t so much as sniff as he asked Cormac, “Where did you

inherit the ability from?”

Cormac squared his shoulders, every inch the proud prince as he said,

“It was once a gift of the Starborn. It was the reason I became so … focused on attaining the Starsword. I thought my ability to teleport meant that the bloodline had resurfaced in me, as I’ve never met anyone else who can do it.” His eyes guttered as he added, “As you know, I was wrong. Some Starborn blood, apparently, but not enough to be worthy of the blade.”

Bryce wasn’t going to touch that one. So she retied her wet hair into a

tight bun atop her head. “What are the odds that I have the gift, too?”

Cormac gave her a slashing smile. “Only one way to find out.” Bryce’s eyes glowed with the challenge. “It would be handy.” Hunt murmured, his voice awed, “It would make you unstoppable.” Bryce winked at Hunt. “Hel yeah, it would. Especially if those Reapers

weren’t full of shit about the Prince of the Pit sending them to challenge me to some epic battlefield duel. Worthy opponent, my ass.”

“You don’t believe the Prince of the Pit sent them?” Cormac asked. “I don’t know what I believe,” Bryce admitted. “But we need to

confirm where those Reapers came from—who sent them—before we make any moves.”

“Fair enough,” Hunt said.

Bryce went on, “Beyond that, this is twice now that we’ve gotten

warnings about Hel’s armies being ready. Apollion’s a little heavy-handed for my tastes, but I guess he really wants to get the point across. And wants me leveled up by the time all Hel breaks loose. Literally, I guess.”

Bryce knew there was no fucking way she’d ever stand against the Star-

Eater and live, not if she didn’t expand her understanding of her power.

Apollion had killed a fucking Asteri, for gods’ sakes. He’d obliterate her.

She said to Cormac, “Tomorrow night. You. Me. Training center. We’ll

try out this teleporting thing.”

“Fine,” the prince said.

Bryce picked lingering dirt from beneath her nails and sighed. “I could

have lived without Hel getting mixed up in this. Without Apollion

apparently wanting in on Sofie’s and Emile’s powers.”

“Their powers,” Cormac said, face thunderous, “are a gift and a curse.

I’m not surprised at all that so many people want them.”

Hunt frowned. “And you really think you’re going to find Emile just

hanging around here?”

The prince glowered at the angel. “I don’t see you combing the docks

for him.”

“No need,” Hunt drawled. “We’re going to search for him without

lifting a finger.”

Cormac sneered, “Using your lightning to survey the city?” Hunt didn’t fall for the taunt. “No. Using Declan Emmett.” Leaving the males to their posturing, Bryce pulled out her phone and

dialed. Jesiba answered on the second ring. “What?”

Bryce smiled. Hunt half turned toward her at the sound of the

sorceress’s voice. “Got any Death Marks lying around?”

Hunt hissed, “You can’t be serious.” Bryce ignored him as Jesiba answered, “I might. Plan on taking a trip,

Quinlan?”

“I hear the Bone Quarter’s gorgeous this time of year.” Jesiba chuckled, a rolling, sultry sound. “You do amuse me every now

and then.” Pause. “You have to pay for this one, you know.”

“Send the bill to my brother.” Ruhn would have a conniption, but he

could deal.

Another soft chuckle. “I only have two. And it’ll take until tomorrow

morning for them to reach you.”

“Fine. Thanks.” The sorceress said a shade gently, “You won’t find any traces of Danika

left in the Bone Quarter, you know.”

Bryce tensed. “What does that have to do with anything?” “I thought you were finally going to start asking questions about her.” Bryce clenched the phone hard enough for the plastic to groan. “What

sort of questions?” What the fuck did Jesiba know?

A low laugh. “Why don’t you start by wondering why she was always

poking around the gallery?”

“To see me,” Bryce said through her teeth. “Sure,” Jesiba said, and hung up.

Bryce swallowed hard and pocketed her phone.

Hunt was slowly shaking his head. “We’re not going to the Bone

Quarter.”

“I agree,” Cormac grumbled. “You’re not going at all,” she said sweetly to Cormac. “We’ll only have

two fares, and Athalar is my plus-one.” The prince bristled, but Bryce turned to Hunt. “When the coins arrive tomorrow, I want to be ready—have as much information as possible about where those Reapers came from.”

Hunt folded his wings behind him, feathers rustling. “Why?” “So the Under-King and I can have an informed heart-to-heart.” “What was that shit Jesiba said about Danika?” Hunt asked warily.

Bryce’s mouth hardened into a thin line. Jesiba did and said nothing

without reason. And while she knew she’d never get answers out of her old boss, at least this nudge was something to go on. “Turns out we’re going to have to ask Declan for an additional favor.”

That night, still reeling from the events of the day, Ruhn flipped through the channels on the TV until he found the sunball game, then set down the remote and swigged from his beer.

On the other end of the sectional couch in Bryce’s apartment, Ithan

Holstrom sat hunched over a laptop, Declan beside him with a laptop of his own. Bryce and Hunt stood behind the two, staring over their shoulders, the latter’s face stormy.

Ruhn had told none of them, especially Bryce, about the conversation

with his father.

Ithan typed away, then said, “I’m super rusty at this.” Dec said without breaking his attention from the computer, “If you took

Kirfner’s Intro to Systems and Matrices, you’ll be fine.”

Ruhn often forgot that Dec was friendly with people other than him and

Flynn. While none of them had attended college, Dec had struck up a years-long friendship with the ornery CCU computer science professor, often consulting the satyr on some of his hacking ventures.

“He gave me a B minus in that class,” Ithan muttered. “From what he tells me, that’s practically an A plus,” Declan said. “Okay, okay,” Bryce said, “any idea how long this is going to take?”

Declan threw her an exasperated look. “You’re asking us to do two

things at once, and neither is easy, so … a while?”

She scowled. “How many cameras are even at the Black Dock?” “A lot,” Declan said, going back to his computer. He glanced to

Holstrom’s laptop. “Click that.” He pointed to a mark on the screen that Ruhn couldn’t see. “Now type this code in to identify the footage featuring Reapers.”

How Dec managed to direct Ithan to comb through the footage around

the Black Dock from earlier today while also creating a program to search through years of video footage of Danika at the gallery was beyond Ruhn.

“It’s insane that you made this,” Ithan said with no small bit of

admiration.

“All in a day’s work,” Dec replied, typing away. Pulling any footage

from the gallery featuring Danika could take days, he’d said. But at least the footage from the Black Dock would only take minutes.

Ruhn carefully asked Bryce, “You sure you trust Jesiba enough to

follow this lead? Or at all?”

“Jesiba literally has a collection of books that could get her killed,”

Bryce said tartly. “I trust that she knows how to stay out of … dangerous entanglements. And wouldn’t shove me into one, either.”

“Why not tell you to look at the footage during the investigation this

spring?” Hunt asked.

“I don’t know. But Jesiba must have had a good reason.” “She scares me,” Ithan said, gaze fixed on the computer. “She’ll be happy to hear that,” Bryce said, but her face was tight.

What’s up? Ruhn asked her mind-to-mind.

Bryce frowned. You want the honest answer?

Yeah.

She tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. I don’t know how much more

of this “Surprise! Danika had a big secret!” stuff I can take. It feels like … I don’t even know. It feels like I never really knew her.

She loved you, Bryce. That’s not in doubt.

Yeah, I know. But did Danika know about the Parthos books—or the

other contraband tomes—in the gallery? Jesiba made it sound like she did.

Like she took a special interest in them.

You guys never talked about it?

Never. But Jesiba was always monitoring those cameras, so … maybe

she saw something. Danika was down there without me plenty of times.

Though Lehabah was usually there, too.

Ruhn noted the pain that filled his sister’s face at the fire sprite’s name.

We’ll figure it out, Ruhn offered, and Bryce gave him a thankful smile

in return.

“Don’t forget to keep an eye out for Emile around the docks,” Bryce

said to Ithan. Cormac had turned down the invitation to join them here— he’d said he wanted to continue hunting for Emile on the ground.

“I already added it to the program,” Declan said. “It’ll flag any Reaper

or any person whose facial features and build match the kid’s.” Dec had managed to pull a still from the security footage in the town of Servast the night Emile and Sofie had separated.

Ruhn again considered his sister, who was peering over Declan’s

shoulder with an intensity he recognized. She wouldn’t let go of any of this.

Would she be able to teleport? She’d told him that Cormac had agreed

to try to teach her. And wouldn’t that be something for the Autumn King to chew on—Bryce plus teleporting plus Starborn power plus Starsword with crazy killing abilities plus Bryce magically outranking their father equaled …

Ruhn kept his face neutral, tucking away thoughts of what a leveled-up

Bryce might mean for the Fae.

Ithan finished typing in the code, and said without looking up, “Hilene

is going to win this one.”

Ruhn checked the sunball game just beginning its first period. “I

thought Ionia was favored.”

Ithan stretched out his long legs, propping his bare feet on a cushioned

stool Bryce had dragged over from the windows to be a temporary replacement for the coffee table. “Jason Regez has been off the last two games. I played with him at CCU—I can tell when he starts to get in a funk.

He’ll fuck it up for Ionia.”

Ruhn eyed Ithan. A few years off the sunball field hadn’t gotten rid of

the muscles on the male. He’d somehow gotten even bigger since then.

“I hate Ionia anyway,” Dec said. “They’re all swaggering assholes.” “Pretty much.” Ithan typed in the next line of code that Declan fed him.

Bryce yawned audibly. “Can’t we watch Veiled Love?”

“No,” everyone answered.

Bryce elbowed Hunt. “I thought we were a team.” Hunt snorted. “Sunball always trumps reality shows.” “Traitor.” Ithan snickered. “I remember a time when you knew all the players on

the CCU team and their stats, Bryce.”

“If you think that was because I was remotely interested in the actual

sunball playing, you’re delusional.”

Hunt laughed, some of the tightness on the angel’s face lightening, and

Ruhn smiled, despite the old ache in his heart. He’d missed out on those years with Bryce. They hadn’t been speaking then. Those had been formative, pivotal years. He should have been there.

Ithan flipped Bryce off, but said to Declan, “Okay, I’m in.” Bryce scanned the screen. “Do you see any Reapers crossing in boats?” “This is showing nothing landing at the Black Dock at all today. Or last

night.”

Athalar asked, “When’s the last time any Reaper docked?” Ithan kept typing, and they all waited, the only additional sound the

swift clack of Declan’s fingers on the keys of his computer. The wolf said, “Yesterday morning.” He grimaced. “These two look familiar?”

Bryce and Ruhn scanned the image Ithan had pulled up. Ruhn had no

idea why the fuck he bothered, since he’d been unconscious, but a shiver went down his spine at the sagging, graying faces, the crepe-like skin so at odds with the jagged, sharp teeth that gleamed as the Reapers stepped from the boat. Both had pulled back their veils during the trip across the Istros, but tugged them over their faces as they stepped onto the Black Dock and drifted into the city.

Bryce said hoarsely, “No. Gods, they’re awful. But no—those weren’t

the ones who attacked.”

“They might have been hiding out for a few days,” Athalar said. “The

Prince of the Pit only threatened us the other night, but he might have had them in place already.”

Ruhn had no idea how the angel spoke so calmly. If the Star-Eater had

come to him and wanted to have a one-on-one chat, he’d still be shitting his pants.

“I’m not seeing any kids lurking around the Black Dock, either,” Ithan

muttered, scanning the results. He twisted to Bryce. “No sign of Emile at all.”

Ruhn asked, “Possible the kid took another way over? Maybe Danika

found some sort of back door into the Bone Quarter.”

“Not possible,” Athalar said. “Only one way in, one way out.” Ruhn bristled. “That’s what we’ve been taught, but has anyone ever

tried to get in some other way?”

Athalar snorted. “Why would they want to?” Ruhn glared at the angel but said, “Fair enough.” Ithan stopped on an image. “What about this one? He didn’t take a boat

over, just appeared from within the city—”

“That’s the one,” Bryce hissed, her face paling.

They all studied the still—the Reaper was half-turned to the camera as

it entered the frame from a street near the Black Dock. He was taller than the others, but had the same grayish, soft face and those terrifying teeth.

Athalar whistled. “You sure know how to pick them, Quinlan.” She scowled at the angel, but asked Dec, “Where’s it coming from? Can

you add its face to the program and run a search on the city’s footage?”

Declan’s brows rose. “You know how long that will take? Every camera

in Lunathion? It’s why we’re not even doing it for Emile. It’d take … I can’t even calculate how long we’d need.”

“Okay, okay,” Bryce said. “But can we … track this one for a while?”

She directed the last bit at Ithan, but the wolf shook his head.

“There must be a logical reason for this—like a gap in the camera

coverage or something—but that Reaper just seems to … appear.”

“Micah had the kristallos stay in known camera gaps,” Hunt said

darkly. “These Reapers could know about them, too.”

Ithan pointed to the screen. “Right here is where they first appear.

Before that, nothing.”

Ruhn pulled up a map of the city in his Aux app. “There should be a

sewer entrance right behind them. Possible they came out of there?”

Ithan moved the footage around. “The cameras don’t cover that sewer

entrance.”

Bryce said, “So they probably knew it’d be a good entry point. And it’d

make sense, given that they dragged us into the sewers.” Where there were

no cameras at all.

“Let me look around a little more,” Ithan offered, and clicked away.

Athalar asked none of them in particular, “You think they were waiting

for you, or for Emile?”

“Or both?” Ruhn asked. “Clearly, they wanted to stay hidden.” “But did the Prince of the Pit send them, or did the Under-King?”

Athalar pushed.

“Good thing we’ve got a date with the being who can answer that,”

Bryce said.

Ruhn winced. He’d paid for the Death Marks that Jesiba had promised,

but he wasn’t happy about it. The thought of Bryce confronting the Under-King scared the Hel out of him.

“We need a plan for how we question him,” Athalar warned her. “I

doubt he’ll appreciate being questioned at all.”

“Hence the research,” Bryce shot back, gesturing to the computer. “You

think I’m stupid enough to go in and fling accusations around? If we can confirm whether or not those Reapers came directly from the Bone Quarter, we’ll have steadier footing when we question him. And if we can get any hint of Emile actually going over to the Bone Quarter, then we’ll have a good reason to ask him about that, too.”

Ithan added, “Considering what Tharion thinks Pippa Spetsos has done

while hunting for Emile, I’m half hoping the kid’s already in the Bone Quarter.” He dragged a hand through his short brown hair. “What she did to that selkie we found this morning was no joke.”

The wolf had filled them all in on the work he’d done with Tharion

earlier—the tortured body they suspected had been left behind by the rebel fanatic.

Bryce pivoted and began pacing. Syrinx trotted at her heels, whining for

a second dinner. Ruhn refrained from remarking on how similar the motion was to one he’d seen their father do so many times in his study. Unable to stand it, he turned back to the sunball game.

Then Ithan said to Ruhn, picking up the thread of conversation from

earlier, “See? Regez should have nailed that shot, but he balked. He’s second-guessing himself. He’s too deep in his head.”

Ruhn glanced sidelong at the male. “You’ve never thought about

playing again?”

A muscle ticked in Ithan’s jaw. “No.” “You miss it?” “No.” It was an obvious lie. Ruhn didn’t fail to note that Bryce’s eyes had

softened.

But Ithan didn’t so much as look in her direction. So Ruhn nodded to

the wolf. “If you ever want to play a pickup game, me, Dec, and Flynn usually play with some of the Aux in Oleander Park over in Moonwood on Sundays.”

“Where’s my invite?” Bryce asked, scowling.

But Ithan said roughly, “Thanks. I’ll think about it.” Hunt asked, “I’m assuming I don’t get an invite, either, Danaan?” Ruhn snorted at the angel. “You want an excuse for me to beat the shit

out of you, Athalar, then I’m down.”

Athalar smirked, but his gaze drifted to Bryce, who was now staring

over Declan’s shoulder at the lightning-fast footage zooming by on his laptop. Footage of Danika from years ago.

She straightened suddenly. Cleared her throat. “I’m going down to the

gym. Call me if you find anything.” She aimed for her bedroom, presumably to change. Ruhn watched Hunt glance between her disappearing form and the sunball game. Weighing which one to follow.

It took Athalar all of thirty seconds to decide. He ducked into his room,

saying he was going to change for the gym.

When Ruhn was alone with Dec and Ithan, his beer half-finished, Ithan

said, “Connor would have picked the game.”

Ruhn raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize it was a competition between

them.” Between a dead male and a living one.

Ithan just typed away, eyes darting over the screen.

And for some reason, Ruhn dared ask, “What would you have picked?” Ithan didn’t hesitate. “Bryce.”

27

Bryce didn’t go to the gym. Not yet, anyway. She waited in front of the elevator, and when Hunt appeared, she tapped her wrist and said, “You’re late. Let’s go.”

He halted. “We’re not working out?” She rolled her eyes, stepping into the elevator and hitting the Lobby

button. “Honestly, Athalar. We’ve got a kid to find.”

“You really think Emile is here? What about the Bone Quarter?” Hunt asked as Bryce strode through the warren of stalls that made up one of the Meat Market’s many warehouses. There was no missing her, not with her neon-pink sneakers and athletic gear, that high ponytail that swished back and forth, brushing tantalizingly close to the glorious curve of her ass. “The Reapers practically told you that he and Sofie are lying low over there.

You’re having Emmet and Holstrom comb through footage because you think Emile’s over there.”

She paused at an open seating area, surveying the crammed array of

tables and the diners hunched over them. “Forgive me if I don’t take those half-lifes at their word. Or want to wait around while Declan and Ithan stare at their screens. Jesiba said the coins will arrive tomorrow, so why not look at alternatives in the meantime? What Danika said … Where the weary souls find relief … Couldn’t that be here, too?”

“Why would Danika tell them to lie low in the Meat Market?” “Why tell them to lie low in the Bone Quarter?” She sniffed and sighed

with longing toward a bowl of noodle soup.

Hunt said, “Even if Danika or Sofie told Emile it was safe to hide out, if

I were a kid, I wouldn’t have come here.”

“You were a kid, like, a thousand years ago. Forgive me if my

childhood is a little more relevant.”

“Two hundred years ago,” he muttered. “Still old as fuck.” He pinched her ass and she squeaked, batting him away, drawing more

than a few eyes. Not exactly inconspicuous. How long until the Viper Queen heard they were here? Hunt tried not to bristle at the thought. He had zero interest in dealing with the shape-shifter tonight.

Hunt marked the faces that turned their way, the ones who moved off

into the stalls and shadows. “And if this is where Sofie told him to hide, Sofie was a fool for listening to Danika. Though I really doubt Danika would have suggested it as a rendezvous point.”

Bryce glared at him over a shoulder. “This kid stole two boats and made

it all the way here. I think he can handle the Meat Market.”

“Okay, buying that, you think he’s simply going to be sitting at a table,

twiddling his thumbs? You’re no better than Cormac, stomping around the docks for any sign of this kid.” Hunt shook his head. “If you do find Emile, don’t forget you’ll have Tharion and Cormac fighting you for him.”

She patted his cheek. “Then it’s a good thing I have the Umbra Mortis

at my side, huh?”

“Bryce,” he growled. “Be reasonable. I mean, look at where we are

right now. This market’s huge. Are we going to search through every warehouse ourselves?”

“Nope.” Bryce put her hands on her hips. “That’s why I brought

backup.”

Hunt’s brows rose. She lifted her hand, waving at someone across the

space. He followed her line of attention. Let out a low growl. “You didn’t.”

“You’re not the only badass I know, Athalar,” she trilled, approaching

Fury and Juniper, the former in her usual all black, the latter in tight jeans and a flowing white blouse. “Hi, friends,” Bryce said, smiling. She kissed June’s cheek as if they were meeting for brunch, then gave Fury a once-over. “I said casual clothes.”

“These are her casual clothes,” Juniper said, laughter in her eyes.

Fury crossed her arms, ignoring them as she said to Hunt, “Gym

clothes? Really?”

“I thought I was going to the gym,” he grumbled.

Bryce waved him off. “All right. We divide and conquer. Try not to

attract too much attention.” The last bit she directed at Hunt and Fury, and the merc glowered with impressive menace. “Don’t ask questions. Just watch—listen. June, you take the east stalls, Fury the west ones, Hunt the south, and me …” Her gaze drifted to the northern wall, where Memento Mori had been painted. The stalls beneath it—beneath the walkway above —lay within range of the door to the Viper Queen’s quarters.

Fury eyed her, but Bryce winked. “I’m a big girl, Fury. I’ll be fine.” Hunt grunted, but suppressed any hint of objection. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” Fury said. Then asked quietly,

“Who is this kid again?”

“His name is Emile,” Bryce whispered. “He’s from Pangera. Thirteen

years old.”

“And possibly very, very dangerous,” Hunt warned, glancing at Juniper.

“If you spot him, come find us.”

“I can take care of myself, angel,” Juniper said with impressive cool. “She’s a big girl, too.” Bryce high-fived her friend. “Right. Meet back

here in thirty?”

They parted, and Hunt watched Bryce weave through the tables of the

dining area—watched the many patrons note her, but keep well away— before slipping between the stalls. Gazes slid back to him, questioning.

Hunt bared his teeth in a silent snarl.

Moving off toward the area she’d ordered him to sweep, Hunt opened

his senses, calmed his breathing.

Thirty minutes later, he’d returned to the dining area, Juniper appearing

a moment later. “Anything?” he asked the faun, who shook her head.

“Not a whisper.” The dancer frowned. “I really hope that kid isn’t here.”

She scowled at the warehouse. “I hate this place.”

“That makes two of us,” Hunt said.

Juniper rubbed at her chest. “You should talk to Celestina about it—the

things that happen here. Not only that fighting pit and the warriors the Viper Queen practically enslaves …” The faun shook her head. “The other things, too.”

“Even Micah let the Viper Queen do what she wanted,” Hunt said. “I

don’t think the new Governor is going to challenge her anytime soon.”

“Someone should,” she said quietly, eyes drifting to the Memento Mori

on the wall. “Someday, someone should.”

Her words were haunted and strained enough that Hunt opened his

mouth to ask more, but Fury sauntered up, smooth as a shadow, and said, “No sign of the kid.”

Hunt searched the space for Bryce, and found her at a stall far too close

to the Fae-guarded door to the Viper Queen’s private living area. The towering Fae sentries a mere fifty feet from her didn’t so much as blink at her presence, though. She had a bag swinging from her wrist, and she was chatting away.

Bryce finished and walked toward them. Again, too many eyes watched

her.

“She’s got some pep in her step,” Juniper observed, chuckling. “She

must have gotten a good bargain.”

The tang of blood and bone and meat stuffed itself up Hunt’s nose as

Bryce approached. “I got some lamb bones from the butcher for Syrinx. He goes crazy for the marrow.” She added to Juniper, “Sorry.”

Right. The faun was a vegetarian. But Juniper shrugged. “Anything for

the little guy.”

Bryce smiled, then surveyed them all. “Nothing?” “Nothing,” Hunt said. “Me neither,” Bryce said, sighing. “What now?” Fury asked, monitoring the crowd. “Even if Declan and Ithan can’t find any footage of Emile around the

Black Dock,” Bryce said, “the fact that there’s no hint of him here at the Meat Market leads us right back to the Bone Quarter again. So it gives us a bit more reason to even ask the Under-King about whether Emile is there.”

Hunt’s blood sparked. When she talked like that, so sure and

unflinching … His balls tightened. He couldn’t wait to show her just how insanely that turned him on.

But Juniper whispered, “A little boy in the Bone Quarter …” “We’ll find him,” Bryce assured her friend, and threw an arm around

Juniper’s shoulders, turning them toward the exit. Hunt swapped a look with Fury, and they followed. Hunt let Bryce and Juniper drift ahead a few

feet, and then, when he was sure they wouldn’t be overheard, asked Axtar, “Why does your girlfriend hate this place so much?”

Fury kept her attention on the shadows between the stalls, the vendors

and shoppers. “Her brother was a fighter here.”

Hunt started. “Does Bryce know?” Fury nodded shallowly. “He was talented—Julius. The Viper Queen

recruited him from his training gym, promised him riches, females, everything he wanted if he signed himself into her employ. What he got was an addiction to her venom, putting him in her thrall, and a contract with no way out.” A muscle ticked in Fury’s jaw. “June’s parents tried everything to get him freed. Everything. Lawyers, money, pleas to Micah for intervention —none of it worked. Julius died in a fight ten years ago. June and her parents only learned about it because the Viper Queen’s goons dumped his body on their doorstep with a note that said Memento Mori on it.”

The elegant dancer strode arm-in-arm with Bryce. “I had no idea.” “June doesn’t talk about it. Even with us. But she hates this place more

than you can imagine.”

“So why’d she come?” Why had Bryce even invited her? “For Bryce,” Fury said simply. “Bryce told her she didn’t have to join,

but she wanted to come with us. If there’s a kid running around lost in this place, June would do anything to help find him. Even come here herself.”

“Ah,” Hunt said, nodding.

Fury’s eyes glittered with dark promise. “I’ll burn this place to the

ground for her one day.”

Hunt didn’t doubt it.

An hour later, Bryce’s arms and stomach trembled as she held her plank on the floor of her apartment building’s gym, sweat dripping off her brow and onto the soft black mat beneath. Bryce focused on the droplet as it splattered, on the music thumping in her earbuds, on breathing through her nose—anything other than the clock.

Time itself had slowed. Ten seconds lasted a minute. She pushed her

heels back, steadying her body. Two minutes down. Three more to go.

Before the Drop, she’d usually managed a decent minute in this

position. After it, in her immortal body, five minutes should be nothing.

Master her powers, indeed. She needed to master her body first. Though

she supposed magic was ideal for lazy people: she didn’t need to be able to hold a plank for ten minutes if she could just unleash her power. Hel, she could blind someone while sitting down if she felt like it.

She chuckled at the idea, horrible as it was: her lounging in an oversize

armchair, taking down enemies as easily as if she were changing the channel with a remote. And she did have enemies now, didn’t she? She’d killed a fucking Reaper today.

As soon as those Death Marks arrived from Jesiba tomorrow morning,

she’d demand answers from the Under-King.

It was why she’d come down here—not only to validate her excuse for

leaving the apartment. Well, that and seeing Danika on Declan’s laptop as it scanned through footage. Her head had begun spinning and acid had been burning through her veins, and sweating it all out seemed like a good idea.

It always worked in Madame Kyrah’s classes.

She owed June a massive box of pastries for coming tonight.

Bryce checked the clock on her phone. Two minutes fifteen seconds.

Fuck this. She plopped onto her front, elbows splaying, and laid her face directly on the mat.

A moment later, a foot prodded her ribs. Since there was only one other

person in the gym, she didn’t bother to be alarmed as she craned her neck to peer up at Hunt. His lips were moving, sweat beading his brow and dampening his tight gray T-shirt—gods-damn it. How could he look so good?

She tugged an earbud out. “What?” she asked. “I asked if you were alive.” “Barely.” His mouth twitched, and he lifted the hem of his T-shirt up to clean his

dripping face. She was rewarded with a glimpse of sweat-slicked abs. Then he said, “You dropped like a corpse.”

She cradled her arms, rubbing the sore muscles. “I prefer running. This

is torture.”

“Your dance classes are equally grueling.” “This isn’t as fun.” He offered her a hand, and Bryce took it, her sweaty skin sliding against

his as he hauled her to her feet.

She wiped at her face with the back of her arm, but found it to be

equally sweaty. Hunt returned to the array of metal machines that seemed more like torture devices, adjusting the seat on one to accommodate his gray wings. She stood in the center of the room like a total creep for a moment, watching his back muscles ripple as he went through a series of pull-down exercises.

Burning fucking Solas.

She’d blown this male. Had slid down that beautiful, strong body and

taken his ridiculously large cock in her mouth and had nearly come herself as he’d spilled on her tongue.

And she knew it was ten kinds of fucked up, considering how much shit

they were juggling and all that lay ahead, but … look at him.

She wiped at the sweat rolling down her chest, leaving a spectacularly

unsexy stain beneath her sports bra.

Hunt finished his set but kept gripping the bar above his head, arms

extended high above him, stretching out his back and wings. Even in a T-shirt and gym shorts, he was formidable. And … she was still staring. Bryce twisted back to her mat, grimacing as she put in her earbud and it blasted music. But her body refused to move.

Water. She needed some water. Anything to delay going back to that

plank.

She trudged for the wet bar built into the far wall of the gym. The

beverage fridge beneath the white marble counter was stocked with glass water bottles and chilled towels, and Bryce helped herself to both. A bowl of green apples sat on the counter, along with a basket full of granola bars, and she took the former, teeth sinking into the crisp flesh.

Fuck doing planks.

Savoring the apple’s tart kiss, she glanced over toward Hunt, but—

Where was he? Even that telltale ripple of his power had faded away.

She scanned the expansive gym, the rows of machines, the treadmills

and ellipticals before the wall of windows overlooking the bustle of the Old Square. How had he—

Hands wrapped around her waist, and Bryce shrieked, nearly leaping

out of her skin. Light erupted from her chest, but with the music thumping in her ears, she couldn’t hear anything—

“Fucking Hel, Quinlan!” Hunt said, prying her earbuds away. “Listen to

your music a little louder, will you?”

She scowled, pivoting to find him right behind her. “It wouldn’t matter

if you didn’t sneak up on me.”

He flashed her a sweaty, wicked grin. “Just making sure my Shadow of

Death skills don’t get rusty before tomorrow’s tea party with the Under-King. I thought I’d see if I could dim myself a bit.” Hence her inability to sense him creeping up. He rubbed at his eyes. “I didn’t realize you’d be so … jumpy. Or bright.”

“I thought you’d praise me for my quick reflexes.” “Good jump. You almost blinded me. Congrats.” She playfully slapped his chest, finding rock-hard muscles beneath the

sweat-dampened shirt. “Solas, Hunt.” She rapped her knuckles on his pecs. “You could bounce a gold mark off these things.”

His wings rustled. “I’m taking that as a compliment.” She propped her elbows on the counter and bit into her apple again.

Hunt extended a hand, and she wordlessly handed him one earbud. He fitted it to his ear, head angling as he listened to the song.

“No wonder you can’t do a plank for more than two minutes, if you’re

listening to this sad-sack music.”

“And your music is so much better?” “I’m listening to a book.” She blinked. They’d often swapped music suggestions while working

out, but this was new. “Which book?”

“Voran Tritus’s memoir about growing up in the Eternal City and how

he became, well … him.” Tritus was one of the youngest late-night talk show hosts ever. And absurdly hot. Bryce knew the last fact had little to do with why Hunt tuned in religiously, but it certainly made her own viewing much more enjoyable.

“I’d say listening to a book while working out is even less motivational

than this sad-sack music,” she said.

“It’s all muscle memory at this point. I only need to pass the time until

I’m done.”

“Asshole.” She ate more of her apple, then changed the song.

Something she’d first heard in the hallowed space of the White Raven dance club, a remix of a slower song that somehow managed to combine

the song’s original sensual appeal with a driving beat that demanded dancing.

The corner of Hunt’s mouth kicked up. “You trying to seduce me with

this music?”

She met his gaze as she chewed on another mouthful of apple. The gym

was empty. But the cameras … “You’re the one who snuck up to fondle me.”

He laughed, the column of his throat working. A droplet of sweat ran

down its powerful length, gleaming among all that golden-brown skin, and her breathing hitched. His nostrils flared, no doubt scenting everything that went hot and wet within the span of a breath.

He tucked in his wings, leaving the earbud in place as he took a step

closer. Bryce leaned slightly against the counter, the marble digging into her overheated spine. But he only took the apple from her fingers. Held her gaze while he bit in, then slowly set the core on the counter.

Her toes curled in her sneakers. “This is even less private than my

bedroom.”

Hunt’s hands slid onto her waist, and he hoisted her onto the counter in

one easy movement. His lips found her neck, and she arched as his tongue slid up one side, as if licking away a bead of sweat. “Best be quiet, then, Quinlan,” he said against her skin.

Lightning skittered around the room. She didn’t need to look to know

he’d severed the camera wires, and likely had a wall of power blocking the door. Didn’t need to do anything other than enjoy the sensation of his tongue on her throat, teasing and tasting.

She couldn’t stop the hands that slid into his hair, driving through the

sweaty strands, all the way down his head until they landed on the nape of his neck. She drew him closer as she did so, and Hunt lifted his head from her neck to claim her mouth.

Her legs opened wider, and he settled between them, pressing hard as

his tongue met hers.

Bryce groaned, tasting apple and that storm-kissed cedar scent that was

pure Hunt, grinding herself against his demanding hardness. With his gym shorts and her skintight leggings, there was no hiding his erection, or the dampness that soaked through her pants.

His tongue tangled with hers, hands dropping from her waist to cup her

ass. She gasped as his fingers dug in, pulling her harder against him, and she hooked her legs around his middle. She couldn’t taste him deep enough, fast enough.

His shirt came off, and then she was running her fingers over those

absurd abs and side abs and pecs, down the shifting muscles of his back, frantic and desperate to touch all of him.

Her tank top peeled away, and then his teeth nipped at the swells of her

breasts above the seafoam green of her sports bra, the fabric almost neon against her tan skin.

He bracketed her waist, calluses scraping her skin as he tilted her back,

and Bryce let him lay her on the counter. She propped herself up on her elbows as he pulled away, graceful as an ebbing tide, hands running from her breasts to her sweaty stomach.

Hunt’s fingers curled over the waistband of her black leggings, but

paused. His gaze lifted to hers in silent request.

At the black fire she beheld there, the sheer beauty and size and

perfection of him …

“Hel yes,” she said, and Hunt grinned wickedly, rolling down her

leggings. Exposing her midriff. Then her abdomen. Then the lacy top of her amethyst thong. Her pants and underwear were soaked with sweat—she didn’t want to imagine what they smelled like—and she opened her mouth to tell him so, but he’d already knelt.

He pulled off her sneakers, then her socks, then the leggings. Then

gently, so gently, he took her right ankle and kissed its inside. Licked at the bone. Then at her calf. The inside of her knee.

Oh gods. This was going to happen. Right here, in the middle of the

building gym where anyone could fly past the wall of windows twenty feet away. He was going down on her right here, and she needed it more than she’d ever needed anything—

His tongue traced circles along the inside of her right thigh. Higher and

higher, until she was shaking. But his hands slid up, looping through the waistband of her thong. He pressed a kiss to the front of her underwear, and she could have sworn he shuddered as he inhaled.

Bryce went liquid, unable to stop her writhe of demand, and Hunt

huffed a warm laugh against her most sensitive place, kissing her again

through the fabric of her underwear.

But then he kissed her left thigh, beginning a downward trajectory,

pulling her underwear away as he went. And when the thong was completely gone, when she was bared to the world, Hunt’s wings splayed above him, blocking her from the world’s view.

Only his to see, his to devour.

Her breathing turned jagged as his mouth reached her left ankle, kissing

again, and then he was sliding back up. He halted with his head between her thighs, though. Took her feet and propped them onto the counter.

Spread her legs wide.

Bryce moaned softly as Hunt surveyed her, the light glowing through

his wings making him look like an avenging angel lit with inner fire.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice guttural with need.

She’d never felt so naked, yet so seen and cherished. Not as Hunt slid a

finger through her wetness. “Fuck yeah,” he growled, more to himself than to her, and she really, truly couldn’t breathe as he knelt again, head poised where she needed him most.

Hunt softly, reverently, laid a hand on her, opening her for his own

personal tasting. His tongue swept along her in an introductory Hi, nice to fuck you flit. She bit her lip, panting through her nose.

Yet Hunt bowed his head, brow resting just above her mound as his

hands slid to her thighs once more. He inhaled and exhaled, shuddering, and she had no idea if he was savoring her scent or really needed a moment to calm the Hel down.

One or two more licks and she knew she’d lose her mind entirely.

Then Hunt pressed a kiss to the top of her sex. And another, as if he

couldn’t help it. His hands caressed her thighs. He kissed her a third time, raised wings twitching, and then his mouth drifted south, one hand with it.

Again, he parted her, and pressed his tongue flat against her as he

dragged it up.

Stars sparked behind Bryce’s eyes, her breasts aching so much she

arched into the air, as if seeking invisible hands to touch them.

“That’s it,” Hunt said against her, and flicked his tongue over her clit

with lethal precision.

She couldn’t endure this. Couldn’t handle one more second of this

torture—

His tongue pushed into her, curling deep, and she bucked. “You taste like gods-damn paradise,” he growled, pulling back enough

for her to note her wetness on his mouth, his chin. “I knew you’d taste like this.”

Bryce clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from shouting as Hunt

drove his tongue back into her, then dragged it all the way up to her clit. His teeth clamped down gently, and her eyes rolled back into her head. Burning Solas and merciful Cthona …

“Hunt,” she managed to say, voice strangled.

He paused, ready to halt should she give the word. But that was the last

thing she wanted.

Bryce met Hunt’s blazing gaze, her chest heaving, head a dizzy, starry

mess. She said the only thing in her head, her mind, her soul. “I love you.”

She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth. She’d never

said them to any male, hadn’t even thought the words about Hunt, though she’d known for a while. Why they came out then, she had no idea, but— his eyes darkened again. His fingers tightened on her legs.

Oh gods. She’d fucked everything up. She was a stupid, horny idiot,

and what the fuck had she been thinking, telling him that when they weren’t even dating, for fuck’s sake—

Hunt unleashed himself. Dipped his head back down between her thighs

and feasted on her. Bryce could have sworn thunderstorms rumbled in the room. It was answer and acceptance of what she’d said. Like he was beyond words now.

Tongue and teeth and purring—all combined into a maelstrom of

pleasure that had Bryce grinding against him. Hunt gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise and she loved it, needed it; she drove her hips into his face, pushing his tongue into her, and then something zapped right at her clit, as if Hunt had summoned a little spark of lightning, and her brain and body lit up like white fire, and oh gods, oh gods, oh gods—

Bryce was screaming the words, Hunt’s wings still cocooning them as

she came hard enough that she arced clean off the counter, fingers scrabbling in his hair, pulling hard. She was flaring with light inside and out, like a living beacon.

She could have sworn they fell through time and space, could have

sworn they tumbled toward something, but she wanted to stay here, with

him, in this body and this place—

Hunt licked her through every ripple, and when the climax eased, when

the light she’d erupted with had faded, and that falling sensation had steadied, he lifted his head.

He met her stare from between her thighs, panting against her bare skin,

lightning in his eyes. “I love you, too, Quinlan.”

No one had said those words to Hunt in two centuries.

Shahar had never said them. Not once, though he’d stupidly offered the

words to her. The last person had been his mother, a few weeks before her death. But hearing them from Quinlan …

Hunt lay beside her in bed thirty minutes later, the minty scent of their

toothpaste and lavender of their shampoo mingling in the air. That had been weird enough: showering one after the other, then brushing their teeth side by side, those words echoing. Walking through the apartment, past Ruhn, Declan, and Ithan watching sunball analysts argue over tonight’s game, wondering how so much and yet so little had changed in the span of a few minutes.

Going into the Bone Quarter tomorrow seemed like a far-off storm. A

distant rumble of thunder. Any thought of their search at the Meat Market tonight dissolved like melting snow.

In the dimness, the TV still droning from the living room, Hunt stared at

Bryce. She silently watched him back.

“One of us has got to say something,” Hunt said, voice gravelly. “What else is there to say?” she asked, propping her head on a fist, hair

spilling over a shoulder in a red curtain.

“You said you love me.” “And?” She cocked an eyebrow.

Hunt’s mouth twitched upward. “It was said under duress.” She bit her lip. He wanted to plant his teeth there. “Are you asking

whether I meant it, or do you think you’re that good with your mouth that I went out of my mind?”

He flicked her nose. “Smart-ass.” She flopped back onto the mattress. “They’re both true.” Hunt’s blood heated. “Yeah?”

“Oh, come on.” She tucked her arms behind her head. “You have to

know you’re good at it. That lightning thing …”

Hunt held up a finger, a spark of lightning dancing at the tip. “Thought

you’d enjoy that.”

“If I’d known ahead of time, I might have been concerned about you

deep-frying my favorite parts.”

He laughed warmly. “I wouldn’t dare. They’re my favorite parts, too.” She lifted herself onto her elbows, unable to keep from fidgeting. “Does

it weird you out? What I said?”

“Why should it? I reciprocated, didn’t I?” “Maybe you felt bad for me and wanted to make it less weird.” “I’m not the kind of person who lightly tosses those words around.” “Me neither.” She reached over and Hunt leaned toward her hand,

letting her brush her fingers through his hair. “I’ve never said it to anyone. I mean, like … romantically.”

“Really?” His chest became unbearably full.

She blinked, her eyes like golden embers in the darkness. “Why the

surprise?”

“I thought you and Connor …” He wasn’t sure why he needed to know.

That fire banked slightly. “No. We might have one day, but it didn’t get

that far. I loved him as a friend, but … I still needed time.” She smiled crookedly. “Who knows? Maybe I was just waiting for you.”

He grabbed her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ve been in love

with you for a while. You know that, right?” His heart thundered, but he said, “I was … very attached to you during our investigation, but when Sandriel had me in that cell under the Comitium, she put on this fucked-up slideshow of all the photos on my phone. Of you and me. And I watched it and knew. I saw the photos of us toward the end, how I was looking at you and you were looking at me, and it was a done deal.”

“Sealed with you jumping in front of a bomb for me.” “It’s disturbing when you make jokes about that, Quinlan.” She chuckled, kissing his jaw. Hunt’s body tensed, readying for another

touch. Begging for another touch. She said, “I made the Drop for you. And offered to sell myself into slavery in your stead. I think I’m allowed to joke about this shit.” He nipped at her nose. But she pulled back, gaze meeting

his. Hunt let her see everything that lay there. “I knew the moment you went snooping for my dildos.”

Hunt burst out laughing. “I can’t tell if that’s the truth.” “You handled Jelly Jubilee with such care. How could I not love you for

it?”

He laughed again, ducking to brush a kiss to her warm throat. “I’ll take

that.” He traced his fingers down her hip, the threadbare softness of her old T-shirt snagging against his callused skin. He kissed her collarbone, inhaling the scent of her, his cock stirring. “So what now?”

“Sex?” He grinned. “No. I mean, fuck yes, but I don’t want an audience.” He

gestured over his shoulder and wing to the wall behind him. “Shall we get a hotel room somewhere in the city?”

“Somewhere on another continent.” “Ah, Quinlan.” He kissed her jaw, her cheek, her temple. He whispered

into her ear, “I really want to fuck you right now.”

She shuddered, arching against him. “Same.” His hand slid from her waist to cup her ass. “This is torture.” He slipped

his hand under her oversize shirt, finding her bare skin warm and soft. He traced his fingers along the seam of her lacy thong, down toward her thighs.

Heat beckoned him, and she sucked in a breath as he halted millimeters short of where he wanted to be.

But she placed a hand on his chest. “What do I call you now?” The words took a moment to register. “What?” “I mean, what are we? Like, dating? Are you my boyfriend?” He snorted. “You really want to say you’re dating the Umbra Mortis?” “I’m not keeping this private.” She said it without an ounce of doubt.

She brushed her fingers over his brow. Like she knew what it meant to him.

Hunt managed to ask, “What about Cormac and your ruse?” “Well, after all that, I guess.” If they survived. She whooshed out a

breath. “Boyfriend sounds weird for you. It’s so … young. But what else is there?”

If he had a star on his chest, Hunt knew it’d be glowing as he asked,

“Partner?”

“Not sexy enough.” “Lover?”

“Does that come with a ruff and lute?” He swept a wing over her bare thigh. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re

a pain in the ass?”

“Just ye olde lover.” Hunt hooked his finger under the strap of her thong and snapped it. She

yowled, swatting away his hand.

But Hunt grabbed her fingers, laying them on his heart again. “What

about mate?” Bryce stilled, and Hunt held his breath, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. When she didn’t reply, he went on, “Fae have mates, right?

That’s the term they use.”

“Mates are … an intense thing for the Fae.” She swallowed audibly.

“It’s a lifetime commitment. Something sworn between bodies and hearts and souls. It’s a binding between beings. You say I’m your mate in front of any Fae, and it’ll mean something big to them.”

“And we don’t mean something big like that?” he asked carefully,

hardly daring to breathe. She held his heart in her hands. Had held it since day one.

“You mean everything to me,” she breathed, and he exhaled deeply.

“But if we tell Ruhn that we’re mates, we’re as good as married. To the Fae, we’re bound on a biological, molecular level. There’s no undoing it.”

“Is it a biological thing?” “It can be. Some Fae claim they know their mates from the moment

they meet them. That there’s some kind of invisible link between them. A scent or soul-bond.”

“Is it ever between species?” “I don’t know,” she admitted, and ran her fingers over his chest in

dizzying, taunting circles. “But if you’re not my mate, Athalar, no one is.”

“A winning declaration of love.” She scanned his face, earnest and open in a way she so rarely was with

others. “I want you to understand what you’re telling people, telling the Fae, if you say I’m your mate.”

“Angels have mates. Not as … soul-magicky as the Fae, but we call life

partners mates in lieu of husbands or wives.” Shahar had never called him such a thing. They’d rarely even used the term lover.

“The Fae won’t differentiate. They’ll use their intense-ass definition.”

He studied her contemplative face. “I feel like it fits. Like we’re already

bound on that biological level.”

“Me too. And who knows? Maybe we’re already mates.” It would explain a lot. How intense things had been between them from

the start. And once they crossed that last physical barrier, he had a feeling the bond would be even further solidified.

So … maybe they were already mates, by that Fae definition. Maybe

Urd had long ago bound their souls, and they’d needed all this time to realize it. But did it even matter? If it was fate or choice to be together?

Hunt asked, “Does it scare you? Calling me your mate?” Her gaze dipped to the space between them, and she said quietly,

“You’re the one who’s been defined by other people’s terms for centuries.” Fallen. Slave. Umbra Mortis. “I just want to make sure it’s a title you’re cool with having. Forever.”

He kissed her temple, breathing in her scent. “Of everything I’ve ever

been called, Quinlan, your mate will be the one I truly cherish.”

Her lips curved. “Did you hear the forever part?” “I thought that’s what this thing between us is.” “We’ve known each other for, like, five months.” “So?” “My mom will throw a fit. She’ll say we should date for at least two

years before calling ourselves mates.”

“Who cares what other people think? None of their rules have ever

applied to us anyway. And if we’re some sort of predestined mates, then it doesn’t make a difference at all.”

She smiled again, and it lit up his entire chest. No, that was the star

between her breasts. He laid a hand over the glowing scar, light shining through his fingers. “Why does it do that?”

“Maybe it likes you.” “It glowed for Cormac and Ruhn.” “I didn’t say it was smart.” Hunt laughed and leaned to kiss the scar. “All right, my lovely mate. No

sex tonight.”

His mate. His.

And he was hers. It wouldn’t have surprised him if her name were

stamped on his heart. He wondered if his own were stamped on the glowing

star in her chest.

“Tomorrow night. We’ll get a hotel room.” He brushed another kiss against her scar. “Deal.”

28

I’m glad to see you alive.

Ruhn stood on a familiar mental bridge, the lines of his body once more

filled in with night and stars and planets. At the other end of the bridge waited that burning female figure. Long hair of pure flame floated around her as if underwater, and what he could make out of her mouth was curved upward in a half smile.

“So am I,” he said. He must have passed out on the couch in Bryce’s

apartment. He’d still been there at two in the morning, watching old game highlights with Ithan. Dec had long since gone to spend the night at Marc’s place. Neither had turned up any solid footage of Emile at the docks—or concrete proof of the Reapers being sent from the Under-King or Apollion.

The search for Danika at the gallery would take days, Dec had said before leaving, and he did have other work to do. Ithan had instantly volunteered to keep combing through it.

The wolf pup wasn’t bad. Ruhn could see them being friends, if their

people weren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Literally.

Ruhn said to Agent Daybright, “Thanks for trying to wake me up.” “What happened?” “Reapers.” Her flame guttered to a violet blue. “They attacked you?” “Long story.” He angled his head. “So I don’t need the crystal to reach

you? I can just be unconscious? Sleeping?”

“Perhaps the crystal was only needed to initiate contact between our

minds—a beacon for your talents,” she said. “Now that your mind—and

mine—knows where to go, you don’t require the crystal anymore, and can contact me even in … inopportune moments.”

A pinprick of guilt poked at him. She was embedded in the higher ranks

of the empire—had he endangered her when he’d been unconscious earlier, his mind blindly reaching for hers?

But Daybright said, “I have information for you to pass on.” “Yeah?” She straightened. “Is that how Ophion agents speak these days? Yeah?” She had to be old, then. One of the Vanir who’d lived for so long that

modern lingo was like a foreign language. Or, gods, if she was an Asteri …

Ruhn wished he had a wall or a doorway or a counter to lean against as

he crossed his arms. “So you’re old-school Pangeran.”

“Your position here isn’t to learn about me. It’s to pass along

information. Who I am, who you are, is of no consequence.” She gestured to her flames. “This should tell you enough.”

“About what?” Her flames pushed closer to her body, turning a vibrant orange—like

the hottest embers. The kind that would burn to the bone. “About what shall happen if you ask too many prying questions.”

He smiled slightly. “So what’s the intel?” “The hit on the Spine is a go.” Ruhn’s smile faded. “When’s the shipment?” “Three days from now. It leaves from the Eternal City at six in the

morning their time. No planned stops, no refueling. They’ll travel swiftly northward, all the way to Forvos.”

“The mech-suit prototype will be on the train?” “Yes. And along with it, Imperial Transport is moving fifty crates of

brimstone missiles to the northern front, along with a hundred and twelve crates of guns and about five hundred crates of ammunition.”

Burning Solas. “You’re going to stage a heist?” “I’m not doing anything,” Agent Daybright said. “Ophion will be

responsible. I’d recommend destroying it all, though. Especially that new mech-suit. Don’t waste time trying to unload anything from the trains or you’ll be caught.”

Ruhn refrained from mentioning that Cormac had suggested something

different. He’d said Ophion wanted to attain the suit—to study it. And use

those weapons in their war. “Where’s the best place to intercept?”

He was really doing this, apparently. Pass this intel along, and he was

officially aligning himself with the rebels.

“That’s for Ophion Command to decide.” He asked carefully, “Will Pippa Spetsos be assigned to the hit?” Or was

she in Lunathion looking for Emile, as Tharion suspected?

“Does it matter?” Ruhn shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “Just want to know

whether we need to notify her.”

“I’m not privy to who Command sends on their missions.” “Do you know where Pippa Spetsos is right now, though?” Her flame guttered for a moment. “Why do you have such interest in

her?”

He held up his hands. “No interest at all.” He could sense her suspicion,

though, so he asked, “Will there be armed guards with the shipment?”

“Yes. About a hundred wolves in and atop the cars, along with a dozen

aerial angel scouts above. All armed with rifles, handguns, and knives.”

Forested areas would be best for a strike, then, to avoid being seen by

the malakim.

“Anything else?” She angled her head. “None of this bothers you?” “I’ve been in the Aux for a while. I’m used to coordinating shit.”

Nothing like this, though. Nothing that put him firmly in the Asteri’s line of fire.

“That’s a stupid thing to reveal. Ophion must have been desperate, if

they sent someone as untrained as you to deal with me.”

“Trust is a two-way street.” He gestured to the space between them.

Another one of those soft laughs raked over his skin. “Do you have

anything for me? What’s this business with Pippa Spetsos?”

“Nothing at all. But—thanks for trying to save my ass earlier.” “I’d be a fool to let a valuable contact go to waste.” He bristled. “I’m touched.” She snorted. “You sound like a male used to being obeyed. Interesting.” “What the Hel is interesting about it?” “The rebels must have something on you, to make you risk your

position by doing this.”

“I thought you didn’t give a shit about my personal life.” “I don’t. But knowledge is power. I’m curious about who you might be,

if the Reapers tried to grab you. And why you allow the rebels to push you around.”

“Maybe I wanted to join.” She laughed, the sound sharp as a blade. “I’ve found that the ruling

class rarely do such things out of the kindness of their hearts.”

“Cynical.” “Perhaps, but it’s true.” “I could name a highly placed Vanir who’s helping the rebels without

being forced into it.”

“Then they should put a bullet in your head.” Ruhn stiffened. “Excuse me?” She waved a hand. “If you know their identity, if you’re able to so

blithely boast about it, if you are asking too many questions about Agent Spetsos, you’re not an asset at all. You’re a loose cannon. If the dreadwolves catch you, how long will it take for you to sing that person’s name?”

“Fuck off.” “Have you ever been tortured? It’s easy for people to claim they

wouldn’t break, but when your body is being pulled apart piece by piece, bone by bone, you’d be surprised what people offer to get the pain to stop, even for a second.”

Ruhn’s temper flared. “You don’t know shit about me or what I’ve been

through.” He was grateful the night and stars of his skin covered the marks his father’s ministrations had left—the ones his ink couldn’t hide.

Day’s flame blazed brighter. “You should mind what you tell people,

even among Ophion allies. They have ways of making people disappear.”

“Like Sofie Renast?” Her fire simmered. “Don’t repeat her true name to anyone. Refer to her

as Agent Cypress.”

Ruhn gritted his teeth. “Do you know anything about Sofie?” “I assumed she was dead, since you’re now my contact.” “And if she isn’t?” “I don’t understand.” “If she isn’t dead, where would she go? Where would she hide?”

Daybright whirled back toward her end of the bridge. “This meeting is

over.” And before Ruhn could say another word, she vanished, leaving only drifting embers behind.

“Why the Hel would the Asteri create their own mech-suit for this war?” Hunt asked, rubbing his jaw as he leaned against the kitchen counter the next morning.

He tried not to look at the black box on the other end of the counter. But

its presence seemed to … hum. Seemed to hollow out the air around it.

Considering the two Death Marks inside, it was no wonder.

Cormac sipped from his tea, face clouded. He’d arrived barely past

dawn, apparently after Ruhn had called him to demand that he rush over, thus dragging Hunt from slumber—and Bryce’s arms—with his knocking. “The suits are the one advantage we have. Well, that the humans have.”

“I know that,” Hunt countered tightly. “I’ve fought them. I know them

inside and out.”

And he’d taken them apart. And sabotaged them so their pilots didn’t

stand a chance.

He’d been content to let that knowledge serve him lately for stuff like

fixing Bryce’s bike—which he’d gone so far as to wash for her before handing it back over—but if the Asteri were making a mech-suit of their own for a Vanir soldier to use …

“I always forget,” Ruhn murmured from where he sat on the couch

beside Bryce, “that you fought in two wars.” The one he’d waged and lost with the Fallen, and then the years spent fighting at Sandriel’s command against the Ophion rebels.

“I don’t,” Hunt said, earning an apologetic wince from Ruhn. “We need

to be careful. You’re sure this information was real?”

“Yeah,” Ruhn said.

Holstrom settled himself against the wall beside the counter, silently

watching the exchange. His face revealed nothing. A laptop sat open on the couch, though, still combing through the years of gallery footage for any hint of Danika.

But this conversation with Cormac, this hit on the Spine … “You likely

have double agents in Ophion,” Hunt said to the Avallen Prince.

“Not Daybright,” Cormac said with absolute certainty. “Anyone can be bought,” Hunt said.

Bryce said nothing, busy pretending that she was more interested in her

pink toenails than this conversation. Hunt knew she was picking over every word.

He’d emerged from the bedroom intending to tell every single person

who crossed his path that she was his mate, but Ruhn had been waiting with this news instead, apparently having slept on the couch.

“Regardless,” Cormac said tightly, “I need to pass this information

along.”

“I’ll go with you,” Ruhn said. Bryce’s mouth popped open in alarm. “You could be walking right into a trap,” Hunt warned. “We don’t have any choice,” Cormac countered. “We can’t risk losing

this opportunity.”

“And what do you risk losing if it’s fake?” Lightning crackled at Hunt’s

fingers. Bryce’s eyes flicked up to him at last, wary and full of caution.

She said before Cormac could answer, “This isn’t our business, Hunt.” “Like Hel it isn’t. We’re tied into it, whether we want to be or not.” Golden fire filled her gaze. “Yes, but we have nothing to do with this

hit; this intel. It’s Ophion’s problem to deal with.” She straightened, giving Ruhn a scathing look that seemed to say, You should stay out of it, too, but faced Cormac. “So go report to Command and keep us out of it.”

Cormac stared her down, his jaw working.

She gave him a slash of a smile that set Hunt’s blood thrumming. “Not

used to females giving you orders?”

“There are plenty of females in Command.” Cormac’s nostrils flared.

“And I would advise you to behave as a Fae female ought to when we are seen together in public. It shall be hard enough to convince others of our betrothal thanks to that smell on you.”

“What smell?” Bryce said, and Hunt braced his feet. She could take

care of herself in a fight, but he’d still enjoy pummeling the bastard.

Cormac motioned between her and Hunt. “You think I can’t scent what

went down between you two?”

Bryce leaned back against the cushions. “You mean, that he went down

on me?”

Hunt choked, and Ruhn let out a garbled string of curses. Ithan walked

to the coffee machine and muttered something about it being too early.

Cormac, however, didn’t so much as blush. He said gravely, “Your

mingling scents will jeopardize this ruse.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Bryce said, and then winked at Hunt.

Gods, she’d tasted like a dream. And the sweet, breathy sounds she

made when she came … Hunt rolled out the tautness in his shoulders. They had a long day ahead of them. A dangerous day.

They were going to the Bone Quarter today, for fuck’s sake. The street

camera footage had pinpointed that the Reaper who’d attacked Bryce and Ruhn had been within a block of the Black Dock, but even with Declan’s skills, they hadn’t found any concrete proof of the Reaper sailing over. It was enough of a link that they’d question the Under-King about it, though.

And if they got through that, then Hunt planned to have a long, long night.

He’d already made a reservation at a fancy-ass hotel restaurant. And reserved a large suite. With rose petals and champagne.

Cormac drummed his fingers on the table and said to Bryce, “If you

find Emile in the Bone Quarter, let me know immediately.” Bryce, to Hunt’s surprise, didn’t object. Cormac pivoted to Ruhn, jerking his chin to the door. “We need to get going. If that supply train is leaving in three days, we can’t waste a moment.” He looked sharply at Hunt. “Even if it’s bad intel.”

“I’m ready.” Ruhn got to his feet. He frowned at his sister. “Good

hunting. Stay out of trouble today, please.”

“Right back at you.” Bryce grinned, though Hunt noted that her

attention was on the Starsword—as if she were speaking to it, pleading with it to protect her brother. Then her gaze slid to Cormac, who already stood at the door. “Be careful,” she said pointedly to Ruhn.

The warning was clear enough: Don’t trust Cormac entirely.

Ruhn nodded slowly. The male might have claimed he’d changed since

trying to kill the prince decades ago, but Hunt didn’t trust him, either.

Ruhn turned toward Ithan as the wolf aimed for the discarded laptop on

the couch. “Look, I hate to drag anyone else into our shit, but … you want to come?”

Holstrom jerked his chin toward the laptop. “What about the footage?” “It can wait a few hours—you can look through any flagged sections

when we get back. We could use your skills today.”

“What skills?” Bryce demanded. Pure, protective alarm. “Being good at

sunball doesn’t count.”

“Thanks, Bryce,” Ithan grumbled, and before Ruhn could supply a

reason for inviting the wolf, he said, “Sabine will have a fit if I’m caught helping you.”

That was the least of what would happen if he was caught aiding rebels.

Hunt tried not to shift his wings, tried to halt the echo of agony through them.

“You don’t answer to Sabine anymore,” Ruhn countered.

Ithan considered. “I guess I’m already in this mess.” Hunt could have

sworn guilt and worry filled Bryce’s face. She chewed her bottom lip, but didn’t challenge Ithan further.

“Okay,” Ithan continued, plugging in the laptop. “Let me get dressed.” Bryce turned warily toward the black box on the counter. The looming,

thrumming Death Marks within. But she said, “Right, Athalar. Time to be on our way. Suit up.”

Hunt followed Bryce back into her bedroom—their bedroom now, he

supposed—to see her pick up a holster and prop her leg on the bed. Her short pink skirt slid back, revealing that lean, long expanse of golden leg.

His mind went blank as she strapped the holster around her upper thigh.

Her fingers snagged on the buckle, and Hunt was instantly there to help,

savoring the silken warmth of her bare skin. “You’re really wearing this to the Bone Quarter?” He drifted a hand to toy with the soft pleats of the skirt.

No matter that her gun would be useless against any Reapers that came their way.

“It’s a thousand degrees today and humid. I’m not wearing pants.” “What if we get into trouble?” He might have taken far longer on the

buckle than necessary. He knew she was letting him.

She smiled wickedly. “Then I suppose the Under-King will get a nice

view of my ass.”

He gave her a flat look.

Bryce rolled her eyes, but said, “Give me five minutes to change.”

29

“I think he knows we’re coming,” Bryce whispered to Hunt as they stood on the edge of the Black Dock and peered through the mist swarming the Istros. Thankfully, there had been no Sailings today. But a path through the mists spread ahead—an opening through which they’d sail to get to the Bone Quarter.

She knew, because she’d sailed through it herself once. “Good,” Hunt said, and Bryce caught his glance at the Starsword she’d

sheathed down her back. Ruhn had left it for her with the note: Bring it.

Don’t be stupid.

For once in her life, she’d listened.

And Ruhn had listened when she’d encouraged him, in their swift

mind-to-mind conversation, not to trust Cormac. His invitation to Ithan had been the result.

She could only pray they’d stay safe. And that Cormac was true to his

word.

Bryce shifted, tucking the thoughts away, the half-rotted black wood

beneath her shoes creaking. She’d wound up changing into black leggings and a gray T-shirt before leaving. Yet even with the mist, the heat somehow continued, turning her clothes into a sticky second skin. She should have stayed in the skirt. If only because it had allowed her to conceal the gun— which she’d left behind after Hunt had mortifyingly reminded her of its uselessness against anything they’d encounter in the Bone Quarter.

“Well, here goes,” Bryce said, fishing out the onyx coin from the pocket

in the back of her waistband. The stifling, earthen smell of mold stuffed

itself up her nostrils, as if the coin itself were rotting.

Hunt pulled his coin from a compartment in his battle-suit and sniffed,

frowning. “It smells worse the closer we get to the Bone Quarter.”

“Then good riddance.” Bryce flipped the Death Mark with her thumb

into the fog-veiled water below. Hunt’s followed. Both only made one ripple before they went rushing toward the Bone Quarter, hidden from view.

“I’m sure a few people have told you this,” a male voice said behind

them, “but that is a very bad idea.”

Bryce whirled, but Hunt bristled. “What the fuck do you want,

Baxian?”

The Helhound emerged like a wraith from the mist, wearing his own

battle-suit. Shadows had settled beneath his dark eyes, like he hadn’t slept in a while. “Why are you here?”

“I’d like to know the same,” Hunt bit out.

Baxian shrugged. “Enjoying the sights,” he said, and Bryce knew it for

the lie it was. Had he followed them? “I thought we were supposed to be paired up, Athalar. You never showed. Does Celestina know about this?”

“It’s my day off,” Hunt said. Which was true. “So no. It’s none of her

business. Or yours. Go report to Isaiah. He’ll give you something to do.”

Baxian’s attention shifted to Bryce, and she held his stare. His gaze

dipped to the scar on her chest, only the upper spikes of the star visible above the neckline of her T-shirt. “Who are you going to see over there?” His voice had gone low, dangerous.

“The Under-King,” Bryce said cheerfully. She could feel Hunt’s

wariness growing with each breath.

Baxian blinked slowly, as if reading the threat emanating from Athalar.

“I can’t tell if that’s a joke, but if it isn’t, you’re the dumbest people I’ve ever met.”

Something stirred behind them, and then a long, black boat appeared

from the slender path in the mists, drifting toward the dock. Bryce reached out a hand for the prow. Her fingers curled over the screaming skeleton carved into its arch. “Guess you’ll have to wait to find out,” she said, and leapt in.

She didn’t look back as Hunt climbed in after her, the boat rocking with

his weight. It pulled away from the Black Dock along that narrow path, leaving Baxian behind to watch until the mists swallowed him.

“You think he’ll say anything?” Bryce whispered into the gloom as the

path ahead vanished, too.

Hunt’s voice was strained, gravelly as it floated toward her. “I don’t see

why he would. You were attacked by Reapers yesterday. We’re going to talk to the Under-King about it today. There’s nothing wrong or suspicious about that.”

“Right.” This shit with Ophion had her overthinking every movement.

Neither of them spoke after that. Neither of them dared.

The boat sailed on, across the too-silent river, all the way to the dark

and distant shore.

Hunt had never seen such a place. Knew in his bones he never wanted to see it again.

The boat advanced with no sail, no rudder, no rower or ferryman. As if

it were pulled by invisible beasts toward the isle across the Istros. The temperature dropped with each foot, until Hunt could hear Bryce’s teeth clacking through the mist, so thick her face was nearly obscured.

The memory of Baxian nagged at him. Snooping asshole.

But he had a feeling that the Helhound wouldn’t go blabbing. Not yet.

Baxian was more likely to gather intel, to shadow their every move and then strike when he had enough to damn them.

Hunt would turn him into smoldering cinders before he could do that,

though. What a fucking mess.

The boat jolted, colliding with something with a thunk.

Hunt stiffened, lightning at his fingertips. But Bryce rose, graceful as a

leopard, the Starsword’s dark hilt muted and matte in the dimness.

The boat had stopped at the base of worn, crumbling steps. The mists

above them parted to reveal an archway of carved, ancient bone, brown with age in spots. Memento Mori, it said across the top.

Hunt interpreted its meaning differently here than in the Meat Market:

Remember that you will die, and end here. Remember who your true masters are.

The hair on Hunt’s arms rose beneath his battle-suit. Bryce leapt from

the boat with Fae elegance, twisting to offer a hand back to him. He took it, only because he wanted to touch her, feel her warmth in this lifeless place.

But her hands were icy, her skin drab and waxy. Even her shimmering

hair had dulled. His own skin appeared paler, sickly. As if the Bone Quarter already sucked the life from them.

He interlaced their fingers as they strode up the seven steps to the

archway and tucked all the worries and fears regarding Baxian, regarding this rebellion, deep within him. They’d only be a distraction.

His boots scuffed on the steps. Here, Bryce had once knelt. Right here,

she’d traded her resting place for Danika’s. He squeezed her hand tighter.

Bryce squeezed back, leaning into him as they stepped under the archway.

Dry ground lay beyond. Mist, and grayness, and silence. Marble and

granite obelisks rose like thick spears, many inscribed—but not with names.

Just with strange symbols. Grave markers, or something else? Hunt scanned the gloom, ears straining for any hint of Reapers, of the ruler they sought.

And for any hint of Emile, or Sofie. But not one footprint marked the

ground. Not one scent lingered in the mist.

The thought of the kid hiding out here … of any living being dwelling

here … Fuck.

Bryce whispered, voice thick, “It’s supposed to be green. I saw a land

of green and sunlight.” Hunt lifted a brow, but her eyes—now a flat yellow —searched the mists. “The Under-King showed me the Pack of Devils after the attack on the city.” Her words shook. “Showed me that they rested here among shining meadows. Not … this.”

“Maybe the living aren’t allowed to see the truth unless the Under-King

allows it.” She nodded, but he read the doubt tightening her ashen face. He said, “No sign of Emile, unfortunately.”

Bryce shook her head. “Nothing. Though I don’t know why I thought

it’d be easy. It’s not like he’d be camped out here in a tent or something.”

Hunt, despite himself, offered her a half smile. “So we head to the boss,

then.” He kept scanning the mists and earth for any hint of Emile or his sister as they continued on.

Bryce halted suddenly between two black obelisks, each engraved with

a different array of those odd symbols. The obelisks—and dozens more beyond them—flanked what seemed to be a central walkway stretching into the mist.

She drew the Starsword, and Hunt didn’t have time to stop her before

she whacked it against the side of the closest obelisk. It clanked, its ringing

echoing into the gloom. She did it again. Then a third time.

“Ringing the dinner bell?” Hunt asked. “Worth a shot,” Bryce muttered back. And smarter than running around

shouting Emile’s and Sofie’s names. Though if they were as survival-savvy as they seemed, Hunt doubted either would come running to investigate.

As the noise faded, what remained of the light dimmed. What remained

of the warmth turned to ice.

Someone—something—had answered.

The other being they sought here.

Their breath hung in the air, and Hunt angled himself in front of Bryce,

monitoring the road ahead.

When the Under-King spoke, however, in a voice simultaneously

ancient and youthful but cold and dry, the sound came from behind them. “This land is closed to you, Bryce Quinlan.”

A tremor went through Bryce, and Hunt rallied his power, lightning

crackling in his ears. But his mate said, “I don’t get a VIP pass?”

The voice from the mist echoed around them. “Why have you come?

And brought Orion Athalar with you?”

“Call him Hunt,” Bryce drawled. “He gets huffy if you go all formal on

him.”

Hunt gave her an incredulous look. But the Under-King materialized

from the mist, inch by inch.

He stood at least ten feet tall, robes of richest black velvet draping to

the gravel. Darkness swirled on the ground before him, and his head … Something primal in him screamed to run, to bow, to fall on his knees and beg.

A desiccated corpse, half-rotted and crowned with gold and jewels,

observed them. Hideous beyond belief, yet regal. Like a long-dead king of old left to rot in some barrow, who had emerged to make himself master of this land.

Bryce lifted her chin and said, bold as Luna herself, “We need to talk.” “Talk?” The lipless mouth pulled back, revealing teeth brown with age.

Hunt reminded himself firmly that the Under-King was feared, yes—

but not evil.

Bryce replied, “About your goons grabbing my sweet brother and

dragging him into the sewer. They claimed they were sent by Apollion.”

Hunt tensed as she spoke the Prince of the Pit’s name. Bryce continued, utterly nonchalant, “But I don’t see how they could have been sent by anyone but you.”

The Under-King hissed. “Do not speak that name on this side of the

Rift.”

Hunt followed Bryce’s irreverence. “Is this the part where you insist

you knew nothing?”

“You have the nerve to cross the river, to take a black boat to my shores,

and accuse me of this treachery?” The darkness behind the Under-King shivered. In fear or delight, Hunt couldn’t tell.

“Some of your Reapers survived me,” Bryce said. “Surely they’ve filled

you in by now.”

Silence fell, like the world in the aftermath of a boom of thunder.

The Under-King’s milky, lidless eyes slid to the Starsword in Bryce’s

hand. “Some did not survive you?”

Bryce’s swallow was audible. Hunt swore silently.

Bryce said, “Why did you feel the need to attack? To pretend the

Reapers were messengers of—the Prince of the Pit.” She clicked her tongue. “I thought we were friends.”

“Death has no friends,” the Under-King said, eerily calm. “I did not

send any Reapers to attack you. But I do not tolerate those who falsely accuse me in my realm.”

“And we’re supposed to take you at your word that you’re innocent?”

Bryce pushed.

“Do you call me a liar, Bryce Quinlan?” Bryce said, cool and calm as a queen, “You mean to tell me that there

are Reapers who can simply defect and serve Hel?”

“From whence do you think the Reapers first came? Who first ruled

them, ruled the vampyrs? The Reapers chose Midgard. But I am not surprised some have changed their minds.”

Bryce demanded, “And you don’t care if Hel steps into your territory?” “Who said they were my Reapers to begin with? There are none

unaccounted for here. There are many other necropolises they might hail from.” And other half-life rulers they answered to.

“Reapers don’t travel far beyond their realms,” Hunt managed to say. “A comforting lie for mortals.” The Under-King smiled faintly.

“All right,” Hunt said, fingers tightening around Bryce’s. The Under-

King seemed to be telling them the truth. Which meant … Well, fuck.

Maybe Apollion was the one who’d sent the Reapers. And if that part was true, then what he’d said about Emile …

Bryce seemed to be following the same train of thought, because she

said, “I’m looking for two people who might be hiding out here. Any insight?”

“I know all the dead who reside here.” “They’re alive,” Bryce said. “Humans—or part-humans.” The Under-King surveyed them once more. Right down to their souls.

“No one enters this land without my knowledge.”

“People can slip in,” Hunt countered. “No,” the creature said, smiling again. “They cannot. Whoever you

seek, they are not here.”

Hunt pushed, “Why should we believe you?” “I swear upon Cthona’s dark crown that no living beings other than

yourselves are currently on this island.”

Well, vows didn’t get much more serious than that. Even the Under-

King wouldn’t fuck with invoking the earth goddess’s name in a vow.

But that left them back at square one. If Emile and Sofie weren’t here,

and couldn’t even enter … Danika had to have known that. She’d have been smart enough to look into the rules before sending them here for hiding.

This was a dead end. But it still left Apollion looking for the kid—and

them needing to find him before anyone else.

So Hunt said, “You’ve been enlightening. Thanks for your time.” But Bryce didn’t move. Her face had gone stony. “Where’s the green

and sunlight you showed me? Was that another comforting lie?”

“You saw what you wished to see.” Bryce’s lips went white with rage. “Where’s the Pack of Devils?” “You are not entitled to speak to them.” “Is Lehabah here?” “I do not know of one with such a name.” “A fire sprite. Died three months ago. Is she here?” “Fire sprites do not come to the Bone Quarter. The Lowers are of no

use.”

Hunt arched a brow. “No use for what?”