House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City)

by Sarah J. Maas

  Isaiah let the near-frantic driver pass before coming up behind Hunt, his brown eyes narrowing. But Bryce replied sweetly, “My boss doesn’t like legionaries in her place. Sorry.”

  Hunt slammed his fist into the iron door. That same blow had smashed cars, shattered walls, and splintered bones. And that was without the aid of the storm in his veins. The iron didn’t so much as shudder; his lightning skittered off it.

  To Hel with threats, then. He’d go for the jugular, as deep and sure as any of his physical kills. So Hunt said into the intercom, “We’re here about a murder.”

  Isaiah winced, scanning the street and skies for anyone who might have heard.

  Hunt crossed his arms as the silence spread.

  Then the iron door hissed and clicked, and inched open.

  Bull’s-fucking-eye.

  It took Hunt a heartbeat to adjust from the sunlight to the dimmer interior, and he used that first step into the gallery to note every angle and exit and detail.

  Plush pine-green carpets went wall to wood-paneled wall in the two-story showroom. Alcoves with soft-lit art displays dotted the edges of the room: chunks of ancient frescoes, paintings, and statues of Vanir so strange and rare even Hunt didn’t know their names.

  Bryce Quinlan leaned against the large ironwood desk in the center of the space, her snow-white dress clinging to every generous curve and dip.

  Hunt smiled slowly, showing all his teeth.

  He waited for it: the realization of who he was. Waited for her to shrink back, to fumble for the panic button or gun or whatever the fuck she thought might save her from the likes of him.

  But maybe she was stupid, after all, because her answering smile was saccharine in the extreme. Her red-tinted nails idly tapped on the pristine wood surface. “You have fifteen minutes.”

  Hunt didn’t tell her that this meeting would likely take a good deal longer than that.

  Isaiah turned to shut the door, but Hunt knew it was already locked. Just as he knew, thanks to legion intel gathered over the years, that the small wood door behind the desk led upstairs to Jesiba Roga’s office—where a floor-to-ceiling internal window overlooked the showroom they stood in—and the simple iron door to their right led down into another full level, stocked with things that legionaries weren’t supposed to find. The enchantments on those two doors were probably even more intense than those outside.

  Isaiah loosed one of his long-suffering sighs. “A murder occurred on the outskirts of the Meat Market last night. We believe you knew the victim.”

  Hunt marked every reaction that flitted across her face as she maintained her perch on the edge of the desk: the slight widening of her eyes, the pause in those tapping nails, the sole blink that suggested she had a short list of possible victims and none of the options were good.

  “Who?” was all she said, her voice steady. Wisps of smoke from the conical diffuser beside the computer drifted past her, carrying the bright, clean scent of peppermint. Of course she was one of those aromatherapy zealots, conned into handing over her marks for the promise of feeling happier, or being better in bed, or growing another half a brain to match the half she already had.

  “Maximus Tertian,” Isaiah told her. “We have reports that you had a meeting with him in the VIP mezzanine of the White Raven two hours before his death.”

  Hunt could have sworn Bryce’s shoulders sagged slightly. She said, “Maximus Tertian is dead.” They nodded. She angled her head. “Who did it?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Isaiah said neutrally.

  Hunt had heard of Tertian—a creep of a vamp who couldn’t take no for an answer, and whose rich, sadistic father had taught him well. And shielded him from any fallout from his hideous behavior. If Hunt was being honest, Midgard was better off without him. Except for the headache they’d now have to endure when Tertian’s father got word that his favored son had been killed … Today’s meeting would be just the start.

  Isaiah went on, “You might have been one of the last people to see him alive. Can you walk us through your encounter with him? No detail is too small.”

  Bryce glanced between them. “Is this your way of feeling out whether I killed him?”

  Hunt smiled slightly. “You don’t seem too cut up that Tertian’s dead.”

  Those amber eyes slid to him, annoyance lighting them.

  He’d admit it: males would do a lot of fucked-up things for someone who looked like that.

  He’d done precisely those sort of things for Shahar once. Now he bore the halo tattooed across his brow and the slave tattoo on his wrist because of it. His chest tightened.

  Bryce said, “I’m sure someone’s already said that Maximus and I parted on unfriendly terms. We met to finish up a deal for the gallery, and when it was done, he thought he was entitled to some … personal time with me.”

  Hunt understood her perfectly. It lined up with everything he’d heard regarding Tertian and his father. It also offered a good amount of motive.

  Bryce went on, “I don’t know where he went after the Raven. If he was killed on the outskirts of the Meat Market, I’d assume he was heading there to purchase what he wanted to take from me.” Cold, sharp words.

  Isaiah’s expression grew stony. “Was his behavior last night different from how he acted during previous meetings?”

  “We only interacted over emails and the phone, but I’d say no. Last night was our first face-to-face, and he acted exactly as his past behavior would indicate.”

  Hunt asked, “Why not meet here? Why the Raven?”

  “He got off on the thrill of acting like our deal was secretive. He claimed he didn’t trust that my boss wasn’t recording the meeting, but he really just wanted people to notice him—to see him doing deals. I had to slide him the paperwork in a bill folio, and he swapped it with one of his own, that sort of thing.” She met Hunt’s stare. “How did he die?”

  The question was blunt, and she didn’t smile or blink. A girl used to being answered, obeyed, heeded. Her parents weren’t wealthy—or so her file said—yet her apartment fifteen blocks away suggested outrageous wealth. Either from this job or some shady shit that had escaped even the legion’s watchful eyes.

  Isaiah sighed. “Those details are classified.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t help you. Tertian and I did the deal, he got handsy, and he left.”

  Every bit of the camera footage and eyewitness reports from the Raven confirmed that. But that wasn’t why they were here. What they’d been sent over to do.

  Isaiah said, “And when did Prince Ruhn Danaan show up?”

  “If you know everything, why bother asking me?” She didn’t wait for them to answer before she said, “You know, you two never told me your names.”

  Hunt couldn’t read her expression, her relaxed body language. They hadn’t initiated contact since that night in the legion’s holding center—and neither of them had introduced themselves then. Had she even registered their faces in that drug-induced haze?

  Isaiah adjusted his pristine white wings. “I’m Isaiah Tiberian, Commander of the 33rd Imperial Legion. This is Hunt Athalar, my—”

  Isaiah tripped up, as if realizing that it had been a damn long time since they’d had to introduce themselves with any sort of rank attached. So Hunt did Isaiah a favor and finished with, “His Second.”

  If Isaiah was surprised to hear it, that calm, pretty-boy face didn’t let on. Isaiah was, technically, his superior in the triarii and in the 33rd as a whole, even if the shit Hunt did for Micah made him directly answerable to the Governor.

  Isaiah had never pulled rank, though. As if he remembered those days before the Fall, and who’d been in charge then.

  As if it fucking mattered now.

  No, all that mattered about that shit was that Isaiah had killed at least three dozen Imperial Legionaries that day on Mount Hermon. And Hunt now bore the burden of paying back each one of those lives to the Republic. To fulfill Micah’s bargain
.

  Bryce’s eyes flicked to their brows—the tattoos there. Hunt braced for the sneering remark, for any of the bullshit comments people still liked to make about the Fallen Legion and their failed rebellion. But she only said, “So, what—you two investigate crimes on the side? I thought that was Auxiliary territory. Don’t you have better things to do in the 33rd than play buddy cop?”

  Isaiah, apparently not amused that there was one person in this city who didn’t fall at his feet, said a tad stiffly, “Do you have people who can verify your whereabouts after you left the White Raven?”

  Bryce held Isaiah’s gaze. Then flicked her eyes to Hunt. And he still couldn’t read her mask of boredom as she pushed off the desk and took a few deliberate steps toward them before crossing her arms.

  “Just my doorman … and Ruhn Danaan, but you already knew that.”

  How anyone could walk in heels that high was beyond him. How anyone could breathe in a dress that tight was also a mystery. It was long enough that it covered the area on her thigh where the scar from that night two years ago would be—that is, if she hadn’t paid some medwitch to erase it. For someone who clearly took pains to dress nicely, he had little doubt she’d gotten it removed immediately.

  Party girls didn’t like scars messing with how they looked in a swimsuit.

  Isaiah’s white wings shifted. “Would you call Ruhn Danaan a friend?”

  Bryce shrugged. “He’s a distant cousin.”

  But apparently invested enough to have charged into the interrogation room two years ago. And shown up at the VIP bar last night. If he was that protective of Quinlan, that might be one Hel of a motive, too. Even if Ruhn and his father would make the interrogation a nightmare.

  Bryce smiled sharply, as if she remembered that fact, too. “Have fun talking to him.”

  Hunt clenched his jaw, but she strode for the front door, hips swishing like she knew precisely how spectacular her ass was.

  “Just a moment, Miss Quinlan,” Isaiah said. The commander’s voice was calm, but take-no-shit.

  Hunt hid his smile. Seeing Isaiah angry was always a good show. So long as you weren’t on the receiving end.

  Quinlan hadn’t realized that yet as she glanced over a shoulder. “Yes?”

  Hunt eyed her as Isaiah at last voiced their true reason for this little visit. “We weren’t just sent here to ask you about your whereabouts.”

  She gestured to the gallery. “You want to buy something pretty for the Governor?”

  Hunt’s mouth twitched upward. “Funny you should mention him. He’s on his way here right now.”

  A slow blink. Again, no sign or scent of fear. “Why?”

  “Micah just told us to get information from you about last night, and then make sure you were available and have you get your boss on the line.” Given how infrequently Hunt was asked to help out on investigations, he’d been shocked as Hel to get the order. But considering that he and Isaiah had been there that night in the alley, he supposed that made them the top choices to head this sort of thing up.

  “Micah is coming here.” Her throat bobbed once.

  “He’ll be here in ten minutes,” Isaiah said. He nodded toward her phone. “I suggest you call your boss, Miss Quinlan.”

  Her breathing turned slightly shallow. “Why?”

  Hunt dropped the bomb at last. “Because Maximus Tertian’s injuries were identical to the ones inflicted upon Danika Fendyr and the Pack of Devils.” Pulped and dismembered.

  Her eyes shuttered. “But—Philip Briggs killed them. He summoned that demon to kill them. And he’s in prison.” Her voice sharpened. “He’s been in prison for two years.”

  In a place worse than prison, but that was beside the point.

  “We know,” Hunt said, keeping his face devoid of any reaction.

  “He can’t have killed Tertian. How could he possibly summon the demon from jail?” Bryce said. “He …” She swallowed, catching herself. Realizing, perhaps, why Micah was coming. Several people she’d known had been killed, all within hours of interacting with her. “You think Briggs didn’t do it. Didn’t kill Danika and her pack.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Isaiah cut in. “But the specific details of how they all died never leaked, so we have good reason to believe this wasn’t a copycat murder.”

  Bryce asked flatly, “Have you met with Sabine?”

  Hunt said, “Have you?”

  “We do our best to stay out of each other’s way.”

  It was perhaps the only smart thing Bryce Quinlan had ever decided to do. Hunt remembered Sabine’s venom as she’d glared through the window at Bryce in the observation room two years ago, and he had no doubt Sabine was just waiting for enough time to pass for Quinlan’s unfortunate and untimely death to be considered nothing more than a fluke.

  Bryce walked back to her desk, giving them a wide berth. To her credit, her gait remained unhurried and solid. She picked up the phone without so much as looking at them.

  “We’ll wait outside,” Isaiah offered. Hunt opened his mouth to object, but Isaiah shot him a warning look.

  Fine. He and Quinlan could spar later.

  Phone held in a white-knuckled grip, Bryce listened to the other end ring. Twice. Then—

  “Morning, Bryce.”

  Bryce’s heartbeat pounded in her arms, her legs, her stomach. “Two legionaries are here.” She swallowed. “The Commander of the 33rd and …” She blew out a breath. “The Umbra Mortis.”

  She’d recognized Isaiah Tiberian—he graced the nightly news and gossip columns often enough that there would never be any mistaking the 33rd’s beautiful Commander.

  And she’d recognized Hunt Athalar, too, though he was never on television. Everyone knew who Hunt Athalar was. She’d heard of him even while growing up in Nidaros, when Randall would talk about his battles in Pangera and whispered when he mentioned Hunt. The Umbra Mortis. The Shadow of Death.

  Then, the angel hadn’t worked for Micah Domitus and his legion, but for the Archangel Sandriel—he’d flown in her 45th Legion. Demon-hunting, rumor claimed his job was. And worse.

  Jesiba hissed, “Why?”

  Bryce clutched the phone. “Maximus Tertian was murdered last night.”

  “Burning Solas—”

  “The same way as Danika and the pack.”

  Bryce shut out every hazy image, breathing in the bright, calming scent of the peppermint vapors rippling from the diffuser on her desk. She’d bought the stupid plastic cone two months after Danika had been killed, figuring it couldn’t hurt to try some aromatherapy during the long, quiet hours of the day, when her thoughts swarmed and descended, eating her up from the inside out. By the end of the week, she’d bought three more and placed them throughout her house.

  Bryce breathed, “It seems like Philip Briggs might not have killed Danika.”

  For two years, part of her had clung to it—that in the days following the murder, they’d found enough evidence to convict Briggs, who’d wanted Danika dead for busting his rebel bomb ring. Briggs had denied it, but it had added up: He’d been caught purchasing black summoning salts in the weeks before his initial arrest, apparently to fuel some sort of new, horrible weapon.

  That Danika had then been murdered by a Pit-level demon—which would have required the deadly black salt to summon it into this world—couldn’t have been a coincidence. It seemed quite clear that Briggs had been released, gotten his hands on the black salt, summoned the demon, and set it loose upon Danika and the Pack of Devils. It had attacked the 33rd soldier who’d been patrolling the alleyway, and when its work was done, it had been sent back to Hel by Briggs. Though he’d never confessed to it, or what the breed even was, the fact remained that the demon hadn’t been seen again in two years. Since Briggs had been locked up. Case closed.

  For two years, Bryce had clung to those facts. That even though her world had fallen apart, the person responsible was behind bars. Forever. Deserving of every horror his jailors inflicted on h
im.

  Jesiba let out a long, long breath. “Did the angels accuse you of anything?”

  “No.” Not quite. “The Governor is coming here.”

  Another pause. “To interrogate you?”

  “I hope not.” She liked her body parts where they were. “He wants to talk to you, too.”

  “Does Tertian’s father know he’s dead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I need to make some phone calls,” Jesiba said, more to herself. “Before the Governor comes.” Bryce understood her meaning well enough: So Maximus’s father didn’t show up at the gallery, demanding answers. Blaming Bryce for his death. It’d be a mess.

  Bryce wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs. “The Governor will be here soon.”

  Faint tapping sounded on the iron archives door before Lehabah whispered, “BB? Are you all right?”

  Bryce put a hand over the mouthpiece of her phone. “Go back to your post, Lele.”

  “Were those two angels?”

  Bryce ground her teeth. “Yes. Go downstairs. Keep Syrinx quiet.”

  Lehabah let out a sigh, audible through six inches of iron. But the fire sprite didn’t speak further, suggesting she’d either returned to the archives beneath the gallery or was still eavesdropping. Bryce didn’t care, as long as she and the chimera stayed quiet.

  Jesiba was asking, “When does Micah get there?”

  “Eight minutes.”

  Jesiba considered. “All right.” Bryce tried not to gape at the fact that she didn’t push for more time—especially with a client’s death in the balance.

  But even Jesiba knew not to screw around with an Archangel. Or maybe she’d finally found a scrap of empathy where Danika’s murder was concerned. She sure as Hel hadn’t demonstrated it when she’d ordered Bryce to get back to work or be turned into a pig two weeks after Danika’s death.

  Jesiba said, “I don’t need to tell you to make sure everything is on lockdown.”

  “I’ll double-check.” But she’d made sure before the angels had even set foot in the gallery.