Hunt sighed. “That’s what I was starting to say: even if I hadn’t rebelled, I’d wind up in a sugarcoated version of my life now. Because I’m still a legionary being used for my so-called gifts—just now officially a slave, rather than being forced into service by a lack of other options. The only other difference is that I’m serving in Valbara, in a fool’s bargain with an Archangel, hoping to one day be forgiven for my supposed sins.”
“You don’t think they were sins.”
“No. I think the angel hierarchies are bullshit. We were right to rebel.”
“Even though it cost you everything?”
“Yeah. So I guess that’s my answer. I’d still do it, even knowing what would happen. And if I ever get free …” Bryce halted her stirring. Met his stare unblinkingly as Hunt said, “I remember every one of them who was there on the battlefield, who brought down Shahar. And all the angels, the Asteri, the Senate, the Governors—all of them, who were there at our sentencing.” He leaned against the counter behind them and swigged from his beer, letting her fill in the rest.
“And after you’ve killed them all? What then?”
He blinked at the lack of fear, of judgment. “Assuming I live through it, you mean.”
“Assuming you live through taking on the Archangels and Asteri, what then?”
“I don’t know.” He gave her a half smile. “Maybe you and I can figure it out, Quinlan. We’ll have centuries to do it.”
“If I make the Drop.”
He started. “You would choose not to?” It was rare—so, so rare for a Vanir to refuse to make the Drop and live only a mortal life span.
She added more vegetables and seasoning to the pan before throwing a packet of instant rice into the microwave. “I don’t know. I’d need an Anchor.”
“What about Ruhn?” Her cousin, even if neither of them would admit it, would take on every beast in the Pit itself to protect her.
She threw him a look dripping with disdain. “No fucking way.”
“Juniper, then?” Someone she truly trusted, loved.
“She’d do it, but it doesn’t feel right. And using one of the public Anchors isn’t for me.”
“I used one. It was fine.” He spied the questions brimming in her eyes and cut her off before she could voice them. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
“Maybe.” She chewed on her lip. “I’m sorry you lost your friends.”
“I’m sorry you lost yours.”
Bryce nodded her thanks, going back to stirring. “I know people don’t get it. It’s just … a light went out inside me when it happened. Danika wasn’t my sister, or my lover. But she was the one person I could be myself around and never feel judged. The one person that I knew would always pick up the phone, or call me back. She was the one person who made me feel brave because no matter what happened, no matter how bad or embarrassing or shitty it was, I knew that I had her in my corner. That if it all went to Hel, I could talk to her and it would be fine.”
Her eyes gleamed, and it was all he could do to not cross the few feet between them and grab her hand as she continued. “But it … It’s not fine. I will never talk to her again. I think people expect me to be over it by now. But I can’t. Anytime I get anywhere close to the truth of my new reality, I want to space out again. To not have to be me. I can’t fucking dance anymore because it reminds me of her—of all the dancing we did together in clubs or on the streets or in our apartment or dorm. I won’t let myself dance anymore because it brought me joy, and … And I didn’t, I don’t, want to feel those things.” She swallowed. “I know it sounds pathetic.”
“It’s not,” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry I dumped my baggage in your lap.”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “You can dump your baggage in my lap anytime, Quinlan.”
She snorted, shaking her head. “You made it sound gross.”
“You said it first.” Her mouth twitched. Damn, if the smile didn’t make his chest tighten.
But Hunt just said, “I know you’ll keep going forward, Quinlan—even if it sucks.”
“What makes you so sure of it?”
His feet were silent as he crossed the kitchen. She tipped back her head to hold his stare. “Because you pretend to be irreverent and lazy, but deep down, you don’t give up. Because you know that if you do, then they win. All the asp-holes, as you called them, win. So living, and living well—it’s the greatest fuck you that you can ever give them.”
“That’s why you’re still fighting.”
He ran a hand over the tattoo on his brow. “Yes.”
She let out a hmm, stirring the mixture in the pan again. “Well then, Athalar. I guess it’ll be you and me in the trenches for a while longer.”
He smiled at her, more openly than he’d dared do with anyone in a long while. “You know,” he said, “I think I like the sound of that.”
Her eyes warmed further, a blush stealing across her freckled cheeks. “You said home earlier. At the bar.”
He had. He’d tried not to think about it.
She went on, “I know you’re supposed to live in the barracks or whatever Micah insists on, but if we somehow solve this case … that room is yours, if you want it.”
The offer rippled through him. And he couldn’t think of a single word beyond “Thanks.” It was all that was necessary, he realized.
The rice finished cooking, and she divvied it into two bowls before dumping the meat mixture on top of it. She extended one to him. “Nothing gourmet, but … here. I’m sorry for earlier.”
Hunt studied the steaming heap of meat and rice. He’d seen dogs served fancier meals. But he smiled slightly, his chest inexplicably tightening again. “Apology accepted, Quinlan.”
A cat was sitting on her dresser.
Exhaustion weighed her eyelids, so heavily she could barely raise them.
Eyes like the sky before dawn pinned her to the spot.
What blinds an Oracle, Bryce Quinlan?
Her mouth formed a word, but sleep tugged her back into its embrace.
The cat’s blue eyes simmered. What blinds an Oracle?
She fought to keep her eyes open at the question, the urgency.
You know, she tried to say.
The Autumn King’s only daughter—thrown out like rubbish.
The cat had either guessed it at the temple all those years ago, or followed her home to confirm whose villa she had tried to enter.
He’ll kill me if he knows.
The cat licked a paw. Then make the Drop.
She tried to speak again. Sleep held her firm, but she finally managed, And what then?
The cat’s whiskers twitched. I told you. Come find me.
Her eyelids drooped—a final descent toward sleep. Why?
The cat angled its head. So we can finish this.
53
It was still raining the next morning, which Bryce decided was an omen.
Today would suck. Last night had sucked.
Syrinx refused to emerge from under the sheets, even though Bryce tried to coax him with the promise of breakfast before his walk, and by the time Bryce finally hauled him to the street below, Hunt monitoring from the windows, the rain had gone from a pleasant patter to an outright deluge.
A fat hoptoad squatted in the corner of the building doorway, under the slight overhang, waiting for any small, unfortunate Vanir to fly past. He eyed Bryce and Syrinx as they splashed by, earning a whiskery huff from the latter, and sidled closer to the side of the building.
“Creep,” she murmured above the drumming rain on the hood of her coat, feeling the hoptoad watch them down the block. For a creature no bigger than her fist, they found ways to be menaces. Namely to all manner of sprites. Even confined to the library, Lehabah loathed and dreaded them.
Despite her navy raincoat, her black leggings and white T-shirt were soon soaked. As if the rain somehow went up from the ground. It pooled in her green rain boots, too, squelching with every
step she made through the lashing rain, the palms swaying and hissing overhead.
The rainiest spring on record, the news had proclaimed last night. She didn’t doubt it.
The hoptoad was still there when they returned, Syrinx having completed his morning routine in record time, and Bryce might or might not have gone out of her way to stomp in a nearby puddle.
The hoptoad had stuck out his tongue at her, but flopped away.
Hunt was standing at the stove, cooking something that smelled like bacon. He glanced over his shoulder while she removed her raincoat, dripping all over the floor. “You hungry?”
“I’m good.”
His eyes narrowed. “You should eat something before we go.”
She waved him off, scooping food into Syrinx’s bowl.
When she stood, she found Hunt extending a plate toward her. Bacon and eggs and thick brown toast. “I watched you pick at your food for five days this past week,” he said roughly. “We’re not starting down that road again.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need a male telling me when to eat.”
“How about a friend telling you that you had an understandably rough night, and you get mean as shit when you’re hungry?”
Bryce scowled. Hunt just kept holding out the plate.
“It’s all right to be nervous, you know,” he said. He nodded toward the paper bag she’d left by the door—Danika’s clothes, folded and ready for analysis. She’d overheard Hunt calling Viktoria thirty minutes ago, asking her to get the Mimir tech from the Fae. She’d said Declan already sent it.
Bryce said, “I’m not nervous. They’re just clothes.” He only stared at her. Bryce growled. “I’m not. Let them lose the clothes in Evidence or whatever.”
“Then eat.”
“I don’t like eggs.”
His mouth twitched upward. “I’ve seen you eat about three dozen of them.”
Their gazes met and held. “Who taught you to cook, anyway?” He sure as Hel was a better cook than she was. The pitiful dinner she’d made him last night was proof.
“I taught myself. It’s a useful skill for a soldier. Makes you a popular person in any legion camp. Besides, I’ve got two centuries under my belt. It’d be pathetic not to know how to cook at this point.” He held the plate closer. “Eat up, Quinlan. I won’t let anyone lose those clothes.”
She debated throwing the plate in his face, but finally took it and plunked into the seat at the head of the dining table. Syrinx trotted over to her, already gazing expectantly at the bacon.
A cup of coffee appeared on the table a heartbeat later, the cream still swirling inside.
Hunt smirked at her. “Wouldn’t want you to head out to the world without the proper provisions.”
Bryce flipped him off, took his phone from where he’d left it on the table, and snapped a few pictures: the breakfast, the coffee, his stupid smirking face, Syrinx sitting beside her, and her own scowl. But she drank the coffee anyway.
By the time she put her mug into the sink, Hunt finishing up his meal at the table behind her, she found her steps feeling lighter than they had in a while.
“Don’t lose those,” Hunt warned Viktoria as she sifted through the bag on her desk.
The wraith looked up from the faded gray band T-shirt with a wailing, robed figure on the front. The Banshees. “We’ve got clothes in Evidence for Danika Fendyr and the other victims.”
“Fine, but use these, too,” Hunt said. Just in case someone had tampered with the evidence here—and to let Quinlan feel as if she’d helped with this. Bryce was at the gallery dealing with some snooty customer, with Naomi watching. “You got the Mimir tech from Declan?”
“As I said on the phone: yes.” Vik peered into the bag again. “I’ll give you a call if anything comes up.”
Hunt stretched a piece of paper across the desk. “See if traces of any of these come up, too.”
Viktoria took one look at the words on it and went pale, her halo stark over her brow. “You think it’s one of these demons?”
“I hope not.”
He’d made a list of potential demons that might be working in conjunction with the kristallos, all ancient and terrible, his dread deepening with each new name he added. Many of them were nightmares that prowled bedtime stories. All of them were catastrophic if they entered Midgard. He’d faced two of them before—and barely made it through the encounters.
Hunt nodded toward the bag again. “I mean it: don’t lose those clothes,” he said again.
“Going soft, Athalar?”
Hunt rolled his eyes and aimed for the doorway. “I just like my balls where they are.”
Viktoria notified Hunt that evening that she was still running the diagnostic. The Fae’s Mimir tech was thorough enough that it’d take a good while to run.
He prayed the results wouldn’t be as devastating as he expected.
He’d messaged Bryce about it while she finished up work, chuckling when he saw that she’d again changed her contact information in his phone: Bryce Is a Queen.
They stayed up until midnight binge-watching a reality show about a bunch of hot young Vanir working at a beach club in the Coronal Islands. He’d refused at first—but by the end of the first hour, he’d been the one pressing play on the next episode. Then the next.
It hadn’t hurt that they’d gone from sitting on opposite ends of the sectional to being side by side, his thigh pressed against hers. He might have toyed with her braid. She might have let him.
The next morning, Hunt was just following Bryce toward the apartment elevator when his phone rang. He took one look at the number and grimaced before picking up. “Hi, Micah.”
“My office. Fifteen minutes.”
Bryce pressed the elevator button, but Hunt pointed to the roof door. He’d fly her to the gallery, then head to the CBD. “All right,” he said carefully. “Do you want Miss Quinlan to join us?”
“Just you.” The line went dead.
54
Hunt took a back entrance into the tower, careful to avoid any area that Sandriel might be frequenting. Isaiah hadn’t picked up, and he knew better than to keep calling until he did.
Micah was staring out the window when he arrived, his power already a brewing storm in the room. “Why,” the Archangel asked, “are you running Fae tests on old evidence down at the lab?”
“We have good reason to think the demon we identified isn’t the one behind Danika Fendyr’s death. If we can find what actually did kill her, it might lead us to whoever summoned it.”
“The Summit is in two weeks.”
“I know. We’re working as hard as we can.”
“Are you? Drinking at a whiskey bar with Bryce Quinlan counts as working?”
Asshole. “We’re on it. Don’t worry.”
“Sabine Fendyr called my office, you know. To rip my head off about being a suspect.” There was nothing humane behind those eyes. Only cold predator.
“It was a mistake, and we’ll own up to that, but we had sufficient cause to believe—”
“Get. The. Job. Done.”
Hunt gritted out, “We will.”
Micah surveyed him coolly. Then he said, “Sandriel has been asking about you—about Miss Quinlan, too. She’s made me a few generous offers to trade again.” Hunt’s stomach became leaden. “I’ve turned her down so far. I told her that you’re too valuable to me.”
Micah threw a file on the table, then turned back to the window.
“Don’t make me reconsider, Hunt.”
Hunt read through the file—the silent order it conveyed. His punishment. For Sabine, for taking too long, for just existing. A death for a death.
He stopped at the barracks to pick up his helmet.
Micah had written a note in the margin of the list of targets, their crimes. No guns.
So Hunt grabbed a few more of his black-hilted daggers, and his long-handled knife, too.
Every movement was careful. Deliberate. Every shift of his body
as he donned his black battle-suit quieted his mind, pulling him farther and farther from himself.
His phone buzzed on his desk, and he glanced at it only long enough to see that Bryce Is a Queen had written to him: Everything okay?
Hunt slid on his black gloves.
His phone buzzed again.
I’m going to order in dumpling soup for lunch. Want some?
Hunt turned the phone over, blocking the screen from view. As if it’d somehow stop her from learning what he was doing. He gathered his weapons with centuries of efficiency. And then donned the helmet.
The world descended into cool calculations, its colors dimmed.
Only then did he pick up his phone and write back to Bryce, I’m good. I’ll see you later.
She’d written back by the time he reached the barracks landing pad. He’d watched the typing bubble pop up, vanish, then pop up again. Like she’d written out ten different replies before settling on Okay.
Hunt shut off his phone as he shouldered his way through the doors and into the open air.
He was a stain against the brightness. A shadow standing against the sun.
A flap of his wings had him skyborne. And he did not look back.
Something was wrong.
Bryce had known it the moment she realized she hadn’t heard from him after an hour in the Comitium.
The feeling had only worsened at his vague response to her message. No mention of why he’d been called in, what he was up to.
As if someone else had written it for him.
She’d typed out a dozen different replies to that not-Hunt message.
Please tell me everything is okay.
Type 1 if you need help.
Did I do something to upset you?
What’s wrong?
Do you need me to come to the Comitium?
Turning down an offer of dumpling soup—did someone steal this phone?
On and on, writing and deleting, until she’d written, I’m worried. Please call me. But she had no right to be worried, to demand those things of him.
So she’d settled with a pathetic Okay.
And had not heard back from him. She’d checked her phone obsessively the whole workday.
House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City) Page 49