House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City)

by Sarah J. Maas

  Bryce nodded, taking the warning, and Hunt leaned closer as her head dipped to read, unable to stop himself from stretching out his wing, ever so slightly, around her back.

  He forgot about it, though, when he beheld the test results. “This can’t be right,” he said quietly.

  “That’s what I said,” Viktoria said, her narrow face impassive.

  There, on the Fae’s Mimir screening, lay the results: small bits of something synthetic. Not organic, not technological, not magic—but a combination of all three.

  Find what is in-between, Aidas had said.

  “Danika freelanced for Redner Industries,” Bryce said. “They do all sorts of experiments. Would that explain this?”

  “It might,” Viktoria said. “But I’m running the Mimir on every other sample we have—from the others. Initial tests also came up positive on Maximus Tertian’s clothes.” The tattoo on Viktoria’s brow bunched as she frowned. “It’s not pure magic, or tech, or organic. It’s a hybrid, with its other traces causing it to be canceled out in the other categories. A cloaking device, almost.”

  Bryce frowned. “What is it, exactly?”

  Hunt knew Viktoria well enough to read the caution in the wraith’s eyes. She said to Bryce, “It’s some sort of … drug. From what I can find, it looks like it’s mostly used for medical purposes in very small doses, but might have leaked onto the streets—which led to doses that are far from safe.”

  “Danika wouldn’t have taken a drug like that.”

  “Of course not,” Viktoria said quickly. “But she was exposed to it—all her clothes were. Whether that was upon her death or before it, however, is unclear. We’re about to run the test on the samples we took from the Pack of Devils and the two most recent victims.”

  “Tertian was in the Meat Market,” Hunt murmured. “He might have taken it.”

  But Bryce demanded, “What’s it called? This thing?”

  Viktoria pointed to the results. “Exactly what it sounds like. Synth.”

  Bryce whipped her head around to look at Hunt. “Ruhn said that medwitch mentioned a synthetic healing compound that could possibly repair …” She didn’t finish the statement.

  Hunt’s eyes were dark as the Pit, a haunted look in them. “It might be the same one.”

  Viktoria held up her hands. “Again, I’m still testing the other victims, but … I just thought you should know.”

  Bryce hopped off the stool. “Thanks.”

  Hunt let her reach the front door before he murmured to the wraith, “Keep it quiet, Vik.”

  “Already wiped the files from the legion database,” Vik said.

  They barely spoke while they returned to the gallery, grabbed Syrinx, and headed home. Only when they stood in her kitchen, Hunt leaning against the counter, did he say, “Investigations can take time. We’re getting closer. That’s a good thing.”

  She dumped food in Syrinx’s bowl, face unreadable. “What do you think about this synth?”

  Hunt considered his words carefully. “As you said, it could have just been exposure Danika had at Redner. Tertian could have just taken it as a recreational drug right before he died. And we’re still waiting to find out if it shows up on the clothes of the remaining victims.”

  “I want to know about it,” she said, pulling out her phone and dialing.

  “It might not be worth our—”

  Ruhn picked up. “Yeah?”

  “That synthetic healing drug you heard about from the medwitch. What do you know about it?”

  “She sent over some research a couple days ago. A lot of it’s been redacted by Redner Industries, but I’m going through it. Why?”

  Bryce glanced toward Hunt’s open bedroom door—to the photo of her and Danika on the dresser, Hunt realized. “There were traces of something called synth on Danika’s clothes—it’s a relatively new synthetic medicine. And it sounds like it’s leaked onto the streets and is being used in higher concentrations as an illegal substance. I’m wondering if it’s the same thing.”

  “Yeah, this research is on synth.” Pages rustled in the background. “It can do some pretty amazing things. There’s a list of ingredients here—again, a lot of it was redacted, but …”

  Ruhn’s silence was like a bomb dropping.

  “But what?” Hunt said into the phone, leaning close enough to hear Bryce’s thundering heart.

  “Obsidian salt is listed as one of the ingredients.”

  “Obsidian …” Bryce blinked at Hunt. “Could the synth be used to summon a demon? If someone didn’t have the power on their own, could the obsidian salt in the drug let them call on something like the kristallos?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ruhn said. “I’ll read through this and let you know what I find.”

  “Okay.” Bryce blew out a breath, and Hunt pulled a step away as she began pacing again. “Thanks, Ruhn.”

  Ruhn’s pause was different this time. “No problem, Bryce.” He hung up.

  Hunt met her stare. She said, “We need to figure out who’s selling this stuff. Tertian must have known before he died. We’re going to the Meat Market.” Because if there was one place in this city where a drug like that might be available, it’d be in that cesspit.

  Hunt swallowed. “We need to be careful—”

  “I want answers.” She aimed for the front closet.

  Hunt stepped into her path. “We’ll go tomorrow.” She drew up short, mouth opening. But Hunt shook his head. “Take tonight off.”

  “It can’t—”

  “Yes, it can wait, Bryce. Talk to your parents tonight. I’ll put on some real clothes,” he added, gesturing to his battle-suit. “And then tomorrow, we’ll go to the Meat Market to ask around. It can wait.” Hunt, despite himself, grabbed her hand. Ran his thumb over the back of it. “Enjoy talking to your parents, Bryce. They’re alive. Don’t miss out on a moment of it. Not for this.” She still looked like she’d object, insist they go hunt down the synth, so he said, “I wish I had that luxury.”

  She looked down at his hand, gripping hers, for a second—for a lifetime. She asked, “What happened to your parents?”

  He said, throat tight, “My mother never told me who my father is. And she … She was a low-ranking angel. She cleaned the villas of some of the more powerful angels, because they didn’t trust humans or other Vanir to do it.” His chest ached at the memory of his mother’s beautiful, gentle face. Her soft smile and dark, angular eyes. The lullabies he could still hear, more than two hundred years later.

  “She worked day and night to keep me fed and never once complained, because she knew that if she did, she’d be out of a job and she had me to think about. When I was a foot soldier, and sending home every copper I made, she refused to spend it. Apparently, someone heard I was doing that, thought she had tons of money hidden in her apartment, and broke in one night. Killed her and took the money. All five hundred silver marks she’d amassed over her life, and the fifty gold marks I’d managed to send her after five years in service.”

  “I am so sorry, Hunt.”

  “None of the angels—the powerful, adored angels—that my mother worked for bothered to care that she’d been killed. No one investigated who did it, and no one granted me leave to mourn. She was nothing to them. But she was … she was everything to me.” His throat ached. “I made the Drop and joined Shahar’s cause soon after that. I battled on Mount Hermon that day for her—my mother. In her memory.” Shahar had taken those memories and made them into weapons.

  Bryce’s fingers pressed his. “It sounds like she was a remarkable person.”

  “She was.” He pulled his hand away at last.

  But she still smiled at him, his chest tightening to the point of pain as she said, “All right. I’ll video chat my parents. Playing legionary with you can wait.”

  Bryce spent most of the evening cleaning. Hunt helped her, offering to fly over to the nearest apothecary and get an insta-clean spell, but Bryce waved him off. Her mom was such a neat fre
ak, she claimed, that she could tell the difference between magically cleaned bathrooms and hand-scrubbed ones. Even on video chat.

  It’s that bleach smell that tells me it’s been done properly, Bryce, her daughter had imitated to Hunt in a flat, no-nonsense voice that made him just a little nervous.

  Bryce had used his phone throughout, snapping photos of him cleaning, of Syrinx taking the toilet paper rolls from their container and shredding them on the carpet they’d just vacuumed, of herself with Hunt stooped over his toilet behind her, brushing down the inside.

  By the time he’d snatched the phone out of her gloved hands, she’d again changed her contact name, this time to Bryce Is Cooler Than Me.

  But despite the smile it brought to his face, Hunt kept hearing Micah’s voice, threats both spoken and implied. Find who is behind this. Get. The. Job. Done. Don’t make me reconsider our bargain. Before I take you off this case. Before I sell you back to Sandriel. Before I make you and Bryce Quinlan regret it.

  Once he solved this case, it would be over, wouldn’t it? He’d still have ten kills left for Micah, which could easily take years to fulfill. He’d have to go back to the Comitium. To the 33rd.

  He found himself looking at her while they cleaned. Taking out his phone and snapping some photos of her as well.

  He knew too much. Had learned too much. About all of it. About what he might have had, without the halo and slave tattoos.

  “I can open a bottle of wine, if you need some liquid courage,” Bryce was saying as they sat before her computer at the kitchen island, the video chat service dialing her parents. She’d bought a bag of pastries from the corner market on their way home—a stress-coping device, he assumed.

  Hunt just scanned her face. This—calling her parents, sitting thigh-to-thigh with her … Fucking Hel.

  He was on a one-way collision course. He couldn’t bring himself to stop it.

  Before Hunt could open his mouth to suggest that this might be a mistake, a female voice said, “And why exactly would he need liquid courage, Bryce Adelaide Quinlan?”

  56

  A stunning woman in her mid-forties appeared on the screen, her sheet of black hair still untouched by gray, her freckled face just beginning to show the signs of a mortal life span.

  From what Hunt could see, Ember Quinlan was seated on a worn green couch situated against oak-paneled walls, her long, jeans-clad legs folded beneath her.

  Bryce rolled her eyes. “I’d say most people need liquid courage when dealing with you, Mom.” But she smiled. One of those broad smiles that did funny things to Hunt’s sense of balance.

  Ember’s dark eyes shifted toward Hunt. “I think Bryce is confusing me with herself.”

  Bryce waved off the comment. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He had a long day at work—he’s making some coffee so he doesn’t fall asleep.”

  Even through the video feed, Ember possessed a grounded sort of presence that commanded attention. She said, “You must be Athie.”

  Before he could answer, a male eased onto the couch beside Ember.

  Bryce beamed in a way Hunt hadn’t seen before. “Hey, Dad.”

  Randall Silago held two coffees, one of which he handed to Ember as he grinned back at his daughter. Unlike his wife, the years or the war had left their mark on him: his black braided hair was streaked with silver, his brown skin marred with a few brutal scars. But his dark eyes were friendly as he sipped from his mug—a chipped white one that said Insert Cliché Dad Joke Here. “I’m still scared of that fancy coffee machine you bought us for Winter Solstice,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I’ve shown you how to use it literally three times.”

  Her mother chuckled, toying with a silver pendant around her neck. “He’s old-school.”

  Hunt had looked up how much the built-in machine in this apartment cost—if Bryce had bought them anything remotely similar, she must have dumped a considerable portion of her paycheck on it. Money she did not have. Not with her debt to Jesiba.

  He doubted her parents knew that, doubted they’d have accepted that machine if they’d known the money could have gone toward paying back her debts to the sorceress.

  Randall’s eyes shifted to Hunt, the warmth cooling to something harder. The eyes of the fabled sharpshooter—the man who’d taught his daughter how to defend herself. “You must be Bryce’s sort-of roommate.” Hunt saw the man notice his tattoos—on his brow, on his wrist. Recognition flared across Randall’s face.

  Yet he didn’t sneer. Didn’t cringe.

  Bryce elbowed Hunt in the ribs, reminding him to actually speak. “I’m Hunt Athalar,” he said, glancing at Bryce. “Or Athie, as she and Lehabah call me.”

  Randall slowly set down his coffee. Yeah, that had been recognition in the man’s face a moment ago. But Randall narrowed his eyes at his daughter. “You were going to mention this when, exactly?”

  Bryce rootled through the pastry bag on the counter and pulled out a chocolate croissant. She bit in and said around it, “He’s not as cool as you think, Dad.”

  Hunt snorted. “Thanks.”

  Ember said nothing. Didn’t even move. But she watched every bite Bryce took.

  Randall met Hunt’s stare through the feed. “You were stationed at Meridan when I was over there. I was running recon the day you took on that battalion.”

  “Rough battle” was all Hunt said.

  Shadows darkened Randall’s eyes. “Yeah, it was.”

  Hunt shut out the memory of that one-sided massacre, of how many humans and their few Vanir allies hadn’t walked away from his sword or lightning. He’d been serving Sandriel then, and her orders had been brutal: no prisoners. She’d sent him and Pollux out that day, ahead of her legion, to intercept the small rebel force camped in a mountain pass.

  Hunt had worked around her order as best he could. He’d made the deaths quick.

  Pollux had taken his time. And enjoyed every second of it.

  And when Hunt could no longer listen to people screaming for Pollux’s mercy, he’d ended their lives, too. Pollux had raged, the brawl between them leaving both angels spitting blood onto the rocky earth. Sandriel had been delighted by it, even if she’d thrown Hunt into her dungeons for a few days as punishment for ending Pollux’s fun too soon.

  Beneath the counter, Bryce brushed her crumb-covered hand over Hunt’s. There had been no one, after that battle, to wash away the blood and put him in bed. Would it have been better or worse to have known Bryce then? To have fought, knowing he could return to her?

  Bryce squeezed his fingers, leaving a trail of buttery flakes, and opened the bag for a second croissant.

  Ember watched her daughter dig through the pastries and again toyed with the silver pendant—a circle set atop two triangles. The Embrace, Hunt realized. The union of Solas and Cthona. Ember frowned. “Why,” she asked Bryce, “is Hunt Athalar your roommate?”

  “He was booted from the 33rd for his questionable fashion sense,” she said, munching on the croissant. “I told him his boring black clothes don’t bother me, and let him stay here.”

  Ember rolled her eyes. The exact same expression he’d seen on Bryce’s face moments before. “Do you ever manage to get a straight answer out of her, Hunt? Because I’ve known her for twenty-five years and she’s never given me one.”

  Bryce glared at her mother, then turned to Hunt. “Do not feel obligated to answer that.”

  Ember let out an outraged click of her tongue. “I wish I could say that the big city corrupted my lovely daughter, but she was this rude even before she left for university.”

  Hunt couldn’t help his low chuckle. Randall leaned back on the couch. “It’s true,” Randall said. “You should have seen their fights. I don’t think there was a single person in Nidaros who didn’t hear them hollering at each other. It echoed off the gods-damned mountains.”

  Both Quinlan women scowled at him. That expression was the same, too.

  Ember seemed to peer over thei
r shoulders. “When was the last time you cleaned, Bryce Adelaide Quinlan?”

  Bryce stiffened. “Twenty minutes ago.”

  “I can see dust on that coffee table.”

  “You. Can. Not.”

  Ember’s eyes danced with devilish delight. “Does Athie know about JJ?”

  Hunt couldn’t stop himself from going rigid. JJ—an ex? She hadn’t ever mentioned—Oh. Right. Hunt smirked. “Jelly Jubilee and I are good friends.”

  Bryce grumbled something he chose not to hear.

  Ember leaned closer to the screen. “All right, Hunt. If she showed you JJ, then she’s got to like you.” Bryce, mercifully, refrained from mentioning to her parents how he’d discovered her doll collection in the first place. Ember continued, “So tell me about yourself.”

  Randall said flatly to his wife. “He’s Hunt Athalar.”

  “I know,” Ember said. “But all I’ve heard are horrible war stories. I want to know about the real male. And get a straight answer about why you’re living in my daughter’s guest room.”

  Bryce had warned him while they cleaned: Do not say a word about the murders.

  But he had a feeling that Ember Quinlan could sniff out lies like a bloodhound, so Hunt smudged the truth. “Jesiba is working with my boss to find a stolen relic. With the Summit happening in two weeks, the barracks are overloaded with guests, so Bryce generously offered me a room to make working together easier.”

  “Sure,” Ember said. “My daughter, who never once shared her precious Starlight Fancy toys with a single kid in Nidaros, but only let them look at the stupid things, offered up the entire guest room of her own goodwill.”

  Randall nudged his wife with a knee, a silent warning, perhaps, of a man used to keeping the peace between two highly opinionated women.

  Bryce said, “This is why I told him to have a drink before we dialed you.”

  Ember sipped from her coffee. Randall picked up a newspaper from the table and began to flip through it. Ember asked, “So you won’t let us come visit this weekend because of this case?”

  Bryce winced. “Yes. It’s not the sort of thing you guys could tag along on.”