And people claimed the shifters got along better with the angels than the Fae.
Viktoria was saying gently to Bryce, “We have video footage from the White Raven, confirming your whereabouts. We have footage of you walking home.”
Cameras covered all of Lunathion, with unparalleled visual and audio coverage, but Bryce’s apartment building was old, and the mandatory monitors in the hallways hadn’t been repaired in decades. The landlord would be getting a visit tonight for the code violations that had fucked this entire investigation. One tiny sliver of audio was all the building cameras had managed to catch—just the audio. It held nothing beyond what they already knew. The phones of the Pack of Devils had all been destroyed in the attack. Not one message had gone out.
“What we don’t have footage of, Bryce,” Viktoria went on, “is what happened in that apartment. Can you tell me?”
Slowly, as if she drifted back into her battered body, Bryce turned her amber eyes to Viktoria.
“Where’s her family?” Hunt asked roughly.
“Human mother lives with the stepfather in one of the mountain towns up north—both peregrini,” Isaiah said. “The sire wasn’t registered or refused to acknowledge paternity. Fae, obviously. And likely one with some standing, since he bothered to get her civitas status.”
Most of the offspring born to human mothers took their peregrini rank. And though Bryce had something of the Fae’s elegant beauty, her face marked her as human—the gold-dusted skin, the smattering of freckles over her nose and high cheekbones, the full mouth. Even if the silken flow of red hair and arched ears were pure Fae.
“Have the human parents been notified?”
Isaiah dragged a hand over his tight brown curls. He’d been awoken by his phone’s shrill ringing at two in the morning, hurtled from the barracks a minute after that, and was now starting to feel the effects of a sleepless night. Dawn was likely not far off. “Her mother was hysterical. She asked over and over if we knew why they’d attacked the apartment, or if it was Philip Briggs. She saw on the news that he’d been released on a technicality and was certain he did this. I have a patrol from the 31st flying out right now; the parents will be airborne within the hour.”
Viktoria’s voice slid through the intercom as she continued her interview. “Can you describe the creature that attacked your friends?”
But Quinlan was gone again, her eyes vacant.
They had fuzzy footage thanks to the street cameras, but the demon had moved faster than the wind and had known to keep out of lens range. They hadn’t been able to ID it yet—even Hunt’s extensive knowledge hadn’t helped. All they had of it was a vague, grayish blur no slowdown could clarify. And Bryce Quinlan, charging barefoot through the city streets.
“That girl isn’t ready to give a statement,” Hunt said. “This is a waste of our time.”
But Isaiah asked him, “Why does Sabine hate Bryce so much—why imply she’s to blame for all this?” When Hunt didn’t answer, Isaiah jerked his chin toward two files on the edge of the desk. “Look at Quinlan’s. Only one standing crime before this—for public indecency during a Summer Solstice parade. She got a little frisky against a wall and was caught in the act. Holding cell overnight, paid the fine the next day, did community service for a month to get it wiped off any permanent record.” Isaiah could have sworn a ghost of a smile appeared on Hunt’s mouth.
But Isaiah tapped a calloused finger on the impressively thick stack beside it. “This is part one of Danika Fendyr’s file. Of seven. Starts with petty theft when she was ten, continues until she reached her majority five years ago. Then it goes eerily quiet. If you ask me, Bryce was the one who was led down a road of ruination—and then maybe led Danika out of hers.”
“Not far enough to keep from snorting enough lightseeker to kill a horse,” Hunt said. “I’m assuming she didn’t party alone. Were there any other friends with her tonight?”
“Two others. Juniper Andromeda, a faun who’s a soloist at the City Ballet, and …” Isaiah flipped open the case file and muttered a prayer. “Fury Axtar.”
Hunt swore softly at the mercenary’s name.
Fury Axtar was licensed to kill in half a dozen countries. Including this one.
Hunt asked, “Fury was with Quinlan tonight?”
They’d crossed paths with the merc enough to know to stay the Hel away. Micah had even ordered Hunt to kill her. Twice.
But she had too many high-powered allies. Some, it was whispered, on the Imperial Senate. So both times, Micah had decided that the fallout over the Umbra Mortis turning Fury Axtar into veritable toast would be more trouble than it was worth.
“Yes,” Isaiah said. “Fury was with her at the club.”
Hunt frowned. But Viktoria leaned in to speak to Bryce once more.
“We’re trying to find who did this. Can you give us the information we need?”
Only a shell sat before the wraith.
Viktoria said, in that luxurious purr that usually had people eating out of her palm, “I want to help you. I want to find who did this. And punish them.”
Viktoria reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and set it faceup on the table. Instantly, its digital feed appeared on the small screen in the room with Isaiah and Hunt. They glanced between the wraith and the screen as a series of messages opened.
“We downloaded the data from your phone. Can you walk me through these?”
Glassy eyes tracked a small screen that rose from a hidden compartment in the linoleum floor. It displayed the same messages Isaiah and Hunt now read.
The first one, sent from Bryce, read, TV nights are for waggle-tailed pups. Come play with the big bitches.
And then a short, dark video, shaking as someone roared with laughter while Bryce flipped off the camera, leaned over a line of white powder—lightseeker—and sniffed it right up her freckled nose. She was laughing, so bright and alive that the woman in the room before them looked like a gutted corpse, and she shrieked into the camera, “LIGHT IT UP, DANIKAAAAA!”
Danika’s written reply was precisely what Isaiah expected from the Prime Apparent of the wolves, whom he’d seen only from a distance at formal events and who had seemed poised to start trouble wherever she went: I FUCKING HATE YOU. STOP DOING LIGHTSEEKER WITHOUT ME. ASSHOLE.
Party Princess, indeed.
Bryce had written back twenty minutes later, I just hooked up with someone in the bathroom. Don’t tell Connor.
Hunt shook his head.
But Bryce sat there as Viktoria read the messages aloud, the wraith stone-faced.
Danika wrote back, Was it good?!!?
Only good enough to take the edge off.
“This isn’t relevant,” Hunt murmured. “Pull in Viktoria.”
“We have our orders.”
“Fuck the orders. That woman is about to break, and not in a good way.”
Then Bryce stopped responding to Danika.
But Danika kept messaging. One after another. Over the next two hours.
The show’s over. Where are you assholes?
Why aren’t you picking up your phone? I’m calling Fury.
Where the FUCK is Fury?
Juniper never brings her phone, so I’m not even gonna bother with her. Where are you?!!!
Should I come to the club? The pack’s leaving in ten. Stop fucking strangers in the bathroom, because Connor’s coming with me.
BRYYYYCE. When you look at your phone, I hope the 1,000 alerts piss you off.
Thorne is telling me to stop messaging you. I told him to mind his own fucking business.
Connor says to grow the Hel up and stop doing shady-ass drugs, because only losers do that shit. He wasn’t happy when I said I’m not sure I can let you date a holier-than-thou priss.
Okay, we’re leaving in five. See you soon, cocksucker. Light it up.
Bryce stared at the screen unblinkingly, her torn face sickly pale in the light of the monitor.
“The building’s cameras are m
ostly broken, but the one in the hall was still able to record some audio, though its video footage was down,” Viktoria said calmly. “Shall I play it?”
No response. So Viktoria played it.
Muffled snarling and screaming filled the speakers—quiet enough that it was clear the hall camera had picked up only the loudest noises coming from the apartment. And then someone was roaring—a feral wolf’s roar. “Please, please—”
The words were cut off. But the hall camera’s audio wasn’t.
Danika Fendyr screamed. Something tumbled and crashed in the background—as if she’d been thrown into furniture. And the hall camera kept recording.
The screaming went on, and on, and on. Interrupted only by the camera’s fritzed system. The muffled grunts and growls were wet and vicious, and Danika was begging, sobbing as she pleaded for mercy, wept and screamed for it to stop—
“Turn it off,” Hunt ordered, stalking from the room. “Turn it off now.” He was out so fast Isaiah couldn’t stop him, instantly crossing the space to the door beside theirs and flinging it open before Isaiah had cleared the room.
But there was Danika, audio crackling in and out, the sound of her voice still pleading for mercy coming from the speakers in the ceiling. Danika, being devoured and shredded.
The silence from the murderer was as chilling as Danika’s sobbing screams.
Viktoria twisted toward the door as Hunt barreled in, his face dark with fury, wings spreading. The Shadow of Death unleashed.
Isaiah tasted ether. Lightning writhed at Hunt’s fingertips.
Danika’s unending, half-muffled screams filled the room.
Isaiah stepped into the chamber in time to see Bryce explode.
He summoned a wall of wind around himself and Vik, Hunt no doubt doing the same, as Bryce shot out of her chair and flipped the table. It soared over Viktoria’s head and slammed into the observation window.
A feral growl filled the room as she grabbed the chair she’d been sitting on, hurling it against the wall, so hard its metal frame dented and crumpled.
She vomited all over the floor. If his power hadn’t been around Viktoria, it would have showered her absurdly expensive bespoke heels.
The audio finally cut off when the hall camera went on the fritz again—and stayed that way.
Bryce panted, staring at her mess. Then fell to her knees in it.
She puked again. And again. And then curled over her knees, her silky hair falling into the vomit as she rocked herself in the stunned silence.
She was half-Fae, assessed at a power level barely on the grid. What she’d just done to the table and chair … Pure, physical rage. Even the most aloof of the Fae couldn’t halt an eruption of primal wrath when it overtook them.
Unfazed, Hunt approached her, his gray wings high to avoid dragging through the vomit.
“Hey.” Hunt knelt at Bryce’s side. He reached for her shoulder, but lowered his hand. How many people ever saw the hands of the Umbra Mortis reach for them with no hint of violence?
Hunt nodded toward the destroyed table and chair. “Impressive.”
Bryce bowed farther over herself, her tan fingers near-white as they dug into her back hard enough to bruise. Her voice was a broken rasp. “I want to go home.”
Hunt’s dark eyes flickered. But he said nothing more.
Viktoria, frowning at the mess, slipped away to find someone to clean it.
Isaiah said, “You can’t go home, I’m afraid. It’s an active crime scene.” And it was so wrecked that even if they scrubbed it with bleach, no Vanir would be able to walk in and not scent the slaughter. “It’s not safe for you to return until we’ve found who did this. And why they did it.”
Then Bryce breathed, “Does S-Sabine—”
“Yes,” Isaiah said gently. “Everyone who was in Danika’s life has been notified.”
The entire world would know in a few hours.
Still kneeling beside her, Hunt said roughly, “We can move you to a room with a cot and a bathroom. Get you some clothes.”
Her dress was so torn that most of her skin was on display, a rip along the waist revealing the hint of a dark tattoo down her back. He’d seen whores in the Meat Market wearing more modest clothes.
The phone in Isaiah’s pocket buzzed. Naomi. The voice of the captain of the 33rd’s infantry was strained when Isaiah answered. “Let the girl go. Right now. Get her out of this building, and for all our sakes, do not put anyone on her tail. Especially Hunt.”
“Why? The Governor gave us the opposite order.”
“I got a phone call,” Naomi said. “From Ruhn fucking Danaan. He’s livid that we didn’t notify Sky and Breath about bringing in the girl. Says it falls under the Fae’s jurisdiction and whatever the fuck else. So screw what the Governor wants—he’ll thank us later for avoiding this enormous fucking headache. Let the girl go now. She can come back in with a Fae escort, if that’s what those assholes want.”
Hunt, having heard the entire conversation, studied Bryce Quinlan with a predator’s unflinching assessment. As one of the triarii, Naomi Boreas answered only to Micah and owed them no explanation, but to disregard his direct order in favor of the Fae … Naomi added, “Do it, Isaiah.” Then she hung up.
Despite Bryce’s pointed Fae ears, her glazed eyes registered no sign that she’d heard.
Isaiah pocketed his phone. “You’re free to go.”
She uncurled on surprisingly steady legs, despite the bandage on one of them. Yet blood and dirt caked her bare feet. Enough of the former that Hunt said, “We’ve got a medwitch on-site.”
But Bryce ignored him and limped out, through the open door and into the hall.
His eyes fixed on the doorway as the scuffle-hop of her steps faded.
For a long minute, neither of them spoke. Then Hunt blew out a breath and rose. “What room is Naomi putting Briggs in?”
Isaiah didn’t get the chance to answer before footsteps sounded down the hall, approaching fast. Definitely not Bryce’s.
Even in one of the most secure places in this city, Isaiah and Hunt positioned their hands within easy reach of their weapons, the former crossing his arms so that he might draw the gun hidden beneath his suit jacket, the latter letting his hand dangle at his thigh, inches from the black-hilted knife sheathed there. Lightning again writhed at Hunt’s fingers.
A dark-haired Fae male burst through the interrogation room door. Even with a silver hoop through his lower lip, even with one side of his long raven-black hair buzzed, even with the sleeves of tattoos beneath the leather jacket, there was no disguising the heritage the strikingly handsome face broadcasted.
Ruhn Danaan, Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae. Son of the Autumn King and the current possessor of the Starsword, fabled dark blade of the ancient Starborn Fae. Proof of the prince’s Chosen One status among the Fae—whatever the Hel that meant.
That sword was currently strapped across Ruhn’s back, its black hilt devouring the glaring firstlights. Isaiah had once heard someone say the sword was made from iridium mined from a meteorite, forged in another world—before the Fae had come through the Northern Rift.
Danaan’s blue eyes simmered like the heart of a flame—though Ruhn himself bore no such magic. Fire magic was common among the Valbaran Fae, wielded by the Autumn King himself. But rumor claimed Ruhn’s magic was more like those of his kin who ruled the sacred Fae isle of Avallen across the sea: power to summon shadows or mist that could not only veil the physical world, but the mind as well. Perhaps even telepathy.
Ruhn glanced at the vomit, scenting the female who’d just left. “Where the fuck is she?”
Hunt went still at the cold command in the prince’s voice.
“Bryce Quinlan has been released,” Isaiah said. “We sent her upstairs a few minutes ago.”
Ruhn had to have taken a side entrance if he’d missed her, and they hadn’t been warned by the front desk of his arrival. Perhaps he’d used that magic of his to worm through the shadows.
The prince turned toward the doorway, but Hunt said, “What’s it to you?”
Ruhn bristled. “She’s my cousin, asshole. We take care of our own.”
A distant cousin, since the Autumn King had no siblings, but apparently the prince knew Bryce well enough to intervene.
Hunt threw Ruhn a grin. “Where were you tonight?”
“Fuck you, Athalar.” Ruhn bared his teeth. “I suppose you heard that Danika and I got into it over Briggs at the Head meeting. What a lead. Good job.” Each word came out more clipped than the last. “If I wanted to kill Danika, I wouldn’t summon a fucking demon to do it. Where the fuck is Briggs? I want to talk to him.”
“He’s incoming.” Hunt was still smiling. That lightning still danced at his knuckles. “And you don’t get the first shot at him.” Then he added, “Daddy’s clout and cash only get you so far, Prince.”
It made no difference that Ruhn headed up the Fae division of the Aux, and was as well trained as any of their elite fighters. Or that the sword on his back wasn’t merely decorative.
It didn’t matter to Hunt. Not where royals and rigid hierarchies were concerned.
Ruhn said, “Keep talking, Athalar. Let’s see where it gets you.”
Hunt smirked. “I’m shaking.”
Isaiah cleared his throat. Burning Solas, the last thing he needed tonight was a brawl between one of his triarii and a prince of the Fae. He said to Ruhn, “Can you tell us if Miss Quinlan’s behavior before the murder tonight was unusual or—”
“The Raven’s owner told me she was drunk and had snorted a pile of lightseeker,” Ruhn snapped. “But you’ll find Bryce with that kind of shit in her system at least one night a week.”
“Why does she do it at all?” Isaiah asked.
Ruhn crossed his arms. “She does what she wants. She always has.” There was enough bitterness there to suggest history—bad history.
Hunt drawled, “Just how close are you two?”
“If you’re asking whether I’m fucking her,” Ruhn seethed, “the answer, asshole, is no. She’s family.”
“Distant family,” Hunt pointed out. “I heard the Fae like to keep their bloodline undiluted.”
House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City) Page 9