House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City)

by Sarah J. Maas

  Declan took a moment to reply, his voice crackling through the speakers above Hunt. “They’re registering as imperial tanks.” His pause had Hunt’s grip tightening on the gunner.

  Hypaxia clarified, “It’s the Asterian Guard. With brimstone missile launchers.” Her voice sharpened as she said to the Autumn King and Prime of the wolves, “Get your forces out of the city.”

  The blood in Hunt’s veins went cold.

  The Asteri had sent someone to deal with the demons. And with Bryce.

  They were going to blast the city into dust.

  The brimstone missiles weren’t ordinary bombs of chemicals and metal. They were pure magic, made by the Asterian Guard: a combination of their angelic powers of wind and rain and fire into one hyperconcentrated entity, bound with firstlight and fired through machinery. Where they struck, destruction bloomed.

  To make them even deadlier, they were laced with spells to slow healing. Even for Vanir. The only comfort for any on their receiving end was that the missiles took a while to make, offering reprieve between rounds. A small, fool’s comfort.

  Fury flicked buttons on the switchboard. “Copy Asterian Units One, Two, and Three, this is Fury Axtar speaking. Pull back.” No answer. “I repeat, pull back. Abort mission.”

  Nothing. Declan said, “They’re the Asterian Guard. They won’t answer to you.”

  The Autumn King’s voice crackled through the speakers. “No one at Imperial Command is answering our calls.”

  Fury angled the helicopter, sweeping southward. Hunt saw them then. The black tanks breaking over the horizon, each as large as a small house. The imperial insignia painted on their flanks. All three gunning for Crescent City.

  They halted just outside its border. The metal launchers atop them angled into position.

  The brimstone missiles shot from the launchers and arced over the walls, blazing with golden light. As the first of them hit, he prayed that Bryce had left the Gate to find shelter.

  Bryce choked on dust and debris, chest heaving. She tried to move—and failed. Her spine—

  No, that was her leg, pinned in a tangle of concrete and iron. She’d heard the boom a minute ago, recognized the golden, arcing plume as brimstone thanks to news coverage of the Pangeran wars, and had sprinted halfway across the square, aiming for the open door of the brick music hall there, hoping it had a basement, when it hit.

  Her ears were roaring, buzzing. Shrieking.

  The Gate still stood, still shielded her with its light. Her light, technically.

  The nearest brimstone missile had hit a neighborhood away, it seemed. It had been enough to trash the square, to reduce some buildings to rubble, but not enough to decimate it.

  Move. She had to move. The other Gates still lay open. She had to find some way to get there; shut them, too.

  She tugged at her leg. To her surprise, the minor wounds were already healing—far faster than she’d ever experienced. Maybe the Horn in her back helped speed it along.

  She reached forward to haul the concrete slab off her. It didn’t budge.

  She panted through her teeth, trying again. They’d unleashed brimstone upon the city. The Asterian Guard had blindly fired it over the walls to either destroy the Gates or kill the demons. But they’d fired on their own people, not caring who they hit—

  Bryce took deep, steadying breaths. It did nothing to settle her.

  She tried again, fingernails cracking on the concrete. But short of cutting off her foot, she wasn’t getting free.

  The Asterian Guard was reloading their missile launchers atop the tanks. Hyperconcentrated magic flared around them, as if the brimstone was straining to be free of its firstlight constraints. Eager to unleash angelic ruin upon the helpless city.

  “They’re going to fire again,” Ruhn whispered.

  “The brimstone landed mostly in Moonwood,” Declan told them. “Bryce is alive but in trouble. She’s trapped under a piece of concrete. Struggling like Hel to free herself, though.”

  Fury screamed into the microphone, “ABORT MISSION.”

  No one answered. The launchers cocked skyward again, pivoting to new targets.

  As if they knew Bryce still lived. They’d keep bombarding the city until she was dead, killing anything in their path. Perhaps hoping that if they took out the Gates, too, the voids would vanish.

  An icy, brutal calm settled over Hunt.

  He said to Fury, “Go high. High as the helicopter can handle.”

  She saw what he intended. He couldn’t fly, not on weak wings. But he didn’t need to.

  “Grab something,” Fury said, and angled the helicopter sharply. It went up, up, up, all of them gritting their teeth against the weight trying to shove them earthward.

  Hunt braced himself, settling into that place that had seen him through battles and years in dungeons and Sandriel’s arena.

  “Get ready, Athalar,” Fury called. The war machines halted, launchers primed.

  The helicopter flew over Lunathion’s walls. Hunt unstrapped himself from the gunner. The Bone Quarter was a misty swirl below as they crossed the Istros.

  Gratitude shone in Danaan’s eyes. Understanding what only Hunt could do.

  The Old Square and glowing Gate at its heart became visible. The only signal he needed. There was no hesitation in Hunt. No fear.

  Hunt leapt out of the helicopter, his wings tucked in tight. A one-way ticket. His last flight.

  Far below, his sharp eyes could just make out Bryce as she curled herself into a ball, as if it’d save her from the death soon to blast her apart.

  The brimstone missiles launched one after another after another, the closest arcing toward the Old Square, shimmering with lethal golden power. Even as Hunt plunged to the earth, he knew its angle was off—it’d strike probably ten blocks away. But it was still too close. Still left her in the blast zone, where all that compressed angelic power would splatter her apart.

  The brimstone hit, the entire city bouncing beneath its unholy impact. Block after block ruptured in a tidal wave of death.

  Wings splaying, lightning erupting, Hunt threw himself over Bryce as the world shattered.

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  She should be dead.

  But those were her fingers, curling on the rubble. That was her breath, sawing in and out.

  The brimstone had decimated the square, the city was now in smoldering ruins, yet the Gate still stood. Her light had gone out, though, the quartz again an icy white. Fires sputtered around her, lighting the damage in flickering relief.

  Clumps of ashes rained down, mixing with the embers.

  Bryce’s ears buzzed faintly, yet not as badly as they had after the first blast.

  It wasn’t possible. She’d spied the shimmering golden brimstone missile arcing past, knew it’d strike a few blocks away, and that death would soon find her. The Gate must have shielded her, somehow.

  Bryce eased into a kneeling position with a groan. The bombardment, at least, had ceased. Only a few buildings stood. The skeletons of cars still burned around her. The acrid smoke rose in a column that blotted out the first of the evening stars.

  And—and in the shadows, those were stirring demons. Bile burned her throat. She had to get up. Had to move while they were down.

  Her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She wiggled her toes inside her sneakers, just to make sure they could work, but … she couldn’t rise off the ground. Her body refused to obey.

  A clump of ash landed on the torn knee of her leggings.

  Her hands began to shake. It wasn’t a piece of ash.

  It was a gray feather.

  Bryce twisted to look behind herself. Her head emptied out. A scream broke from her, rising from so deep that she wondered if it was the sound of the world shredding apart.

  Hunt lay sprawled on the ground, his back a bloodied, burned mess, and his legs …

  There was nothing left of them but ribbons. Nothing left of his right arm but splattered blood on pavement. And through his back, wh
ere his wings had been—

  That was a bloody, gaping hole.

  She moved on instinct, scrambling over concrete and metal and blood.

  He’d shielded her against the brimstone. Had somehow escaped Sandriel and come here. To save her.

  “Pleasepleasepleaseplease”

  She turned him over, searching for any hint of life, of breathing—

  His mouth moved. Just slightly.

  Bryce sobbed, pulling his head into her lap. “Help!” she called. No answer beyond an unearthly baying in the fire-licked darkness. “Help!” she yelled again, but her voice was so hoarse it barely carried across the square. Randall had told her about the terrible power of the Asterian Guard’s brimstone missiles. How the spells woven into the condensed angelic magic slowed healing in Vanir long enough for them to bleed out. To die.

  Blood coated so much of Hunt’s face that she could barely see the skin beneath. Only the faint flutter of his throat told her he still lived.

  And the wounds that should have been healing … they leaked and gushed blood. Arteries had been severed. Vital arteries—

  “HELP!” she screamed.

  But no one answered.

  The brimstone’s blasts had downed the helicopter.

  Only Fury’s skill kept them alive, though they’d still crashed, flipping twice, before landing somewhere in Moonwood.

  Tharion bled from his head, Fury had a gash in her leg, Flynn and Amelie both bore broken bones, and Ruhn … He didn’t bother to think about his own wounds. Not as the smoke-filled, burning night became laced with approaching snarls. But the brimstone had halted—at least they had that. He prayed the Asterian Guard would need a good while before they could muster the power to form more of them.

  Ruhn forced himself into movement by sheer will.

  Two of the duffels of weapons had come free of their bindings and been lost in the crash. Flynn and Fury began divvying out the remaining guns and knives, working quickly while Ruhn assessed the state of the one intact machine gun he’d ripped from the chopper’s floor.

  Hypaxia’s voice cracked over the miraculously undamaged radio, “We have eyes on the Old Square Gate,” she said. Ruhn paused, waiting for the news. Not daring to hope.

  The last Ruhn had seen of Athalar was the angel plunging toward Bryce while the Asterian Guard fired those glowing golden missiles over the walls like some sick fireworks show. Then the citywide explosions had sundered the world.

  “Athalar is down,” Declan announced gravely. “Bryce lives.” Ruhn offered up a silent prayer of thanks to Cthona for her mercy. Another pause. “Correction, Athalar made it, but barely. His injuries are … Shit.” His swallow was audible. “I don’t think there’s any chance of survival.”

  Tharion cocked a rifle to his shoulder, peering through the scope into the darkness. “We’ve got about a dozen demons sizing us up from that brick building over there.”

  “Six more over here,” Fury said, also using the scope on her rifle. Amelie Ravenscroft limped badly as she shifted into wolf form with a flash of light and bared her teeth at the darkness.

  If they didn’t shut the portals in the other Gates, only two options existed: retreat or death.

  “They’re getting curious,” Flynn murmured without taking his eye from the scope of his gun. “Do we have a plan?”

  “The river’s at our backs,” Tharion said. “If we’re lucky, my people might come to our aid.” The Blue Court lay far enough below the surface to have avoided the brimstone’s wrath. They could rally.

  But Bryce and Hunt remained in the Old Square. Ruhn said, “We’re thirty blocks from the Heart Gate. We go down the river-walk, then cut inland at Main.” He added, “That’s where I’m headed, at least.” They all nodded, grim-faced.

  Tell Ruhn I forgive him—for all of it.

  The words echoed through Ruhn’s blood. They had to keep going, even if the demons picked them off one by one. He just hoped they’d reach his sister in time to find something to save.

  Bryce knelt over Hunt, his life spilling out all around her. And in the smoldering, acrid quiet, she began whispering.

  “I believe it happened for a reason. I believe it all happened for a reason.” She stroked his bloody hair, her voice shaking. “I believe it wasn’t for nothing.”

  She looked toward the Gate. Gently set Hunt down amid the rubble. She whispered again, rising to her feet, “I believe it happened for a reason. I believe it all happened for a reason. I believe it wasn’t for nothing.”

  She walked from Hunt’s body as he bled behind her. Wended her way through the debris and rubble. The fence around the Gate had been warped, peeled away. But the quartz archway still stood, its bronze plaque and the dial pad’s gems intact as she halted before them.

  Bryce whispered again, “I believe it wasn’t for nothing.”

  She laid her palm on the dial pad’s bronze disk.

  The metal was warm against Bryce’s fingers, as it had been when she’d touched it that final day with Danika. Its power zinged through her, sucking the fee for the usage: a drop of her magic.

  The Gates had been used as communication devices in the past—but the only reason words could pass between them was the power that connected them. They all sat atop linked ley lines. A veritable matrix of energy.

  The Gate wasn’t just a prism. It was a conduit. And she had the Horn in her very skin. Had proved it could close a portal to Hel.

  Bryce whispered into the little intercom in the center of the pad’s arc of gems, “Hello?”

  No one answered. She said, “If you can hear me, come to the Gate. Any Gate.”

  Still nothing. She said, “My name is Bryce Quinlan. I’m in the Old Square. And … and I think I’ve figured out how we can stop this. How we can fix this.”

  Silence. None of the other gems lit up to indicate the presence or voice of another person in another district, touching the disk on their end.

  “I know it’s bad right now,” she tried again. “I know it’s so, so bad, and dark, and … I know it feels impossible. But if you can make it to another Gate, just … please. Please come.”

  She took a shuddering breath.

  “You don’t need to do anything,” she said. “All you need to do is just put your hand on the disk. That’s all I need—just another person on the line.” Her hand shook, and she pressed it harder to the metal. “The Gate is a conduit of power—a lightning rod that feeds into every other Gate throughout the city. And I need someone on the other end, linked to me through that vein.” She swallowed. “I need someone to Anchor me. So I can make the Drop.”

  The words whispered out into the world.

  Bryce’s rasping voice overrode the sounds of the demons rallying again around her. “The firstlight I’ll generate by making the Drop will spread from this Gate to the others. It’ll light up everything, send those demons racing away. It’ll heal everything it touches. Everyone it touches. And I—” She took a deep breath. “I am Starborn Fae, and I bear Luna’s Horn in my body. With the power of the firstlight I generate, I can shut the portals to Hel. I did it here—I can do it everywhere else. But I need a link—and the power from my Drop to do it.”

  Still no one answered. No life stirred, beyond the beasts in the deepest shadows.

  “Please,” Bryce begged, her voice breaking.

  Silently, she prayed for any one of those six other gems to light up, to show that just one person, in any district, would answer her plea.

  But there was only the crackling nothingness.

  She was alone. And Hunt was dying.

  Bryce waited five seconds. Ten seconds. No one answered. No one came.

  Swallowing another sob, she took a shuddering breath and let go of the disk.

  Hunt’s breaths had grown few and far between. She crawled back to him, hands shaking. But her voice was calm as she again slid his head into her lap. Stroked his blood-soaked face. “It’s going to be all right,” she said. “Help is coming, Hunt. The medw
itches are on their way.” She shut her eyes against her tears. “We’re going to be all right,” she lied. “We’re going to go home, where Syrinx is waiting for us. We’re going to go home. You and me. Together. We’ll have that afterward, like you promised. But only if you hold on, Hunt.”

  His breathing rattled in his chest. A death rattle. She bent over him, inhaling his scent, the strength in him. And then she said it—the three words that meant more than anything. She whispered them into his ear, sending them with all she had left in her.

  The final truth, the one she needed him to hear.

  Hunt’s breathing spread and thinned. Not much longer.

  Bryce couldn’t stop her tears as they dropped onto Hunt’s cheeks, cleaning away the blood in clear tracks.

  Light it up, Danika whispered to her. Into her heart.

  “I tried,” she whispered back. “Danika, I tried.”

  Light it up.

  Bryce wept. “It didn’t work.”

  Light it up. Urgency sharpened the words. As if … As if …

  Bryce lifted her head. Looked toward the Gate. To the plaque and its gems.

  She waited. Counted her breaths. One. Two. Three.

  The gems remained dark. Four. Five. Six.

  Nothing at all. Bryce swallowed hard and turned back to Hunt. One last time. He’d go, and then she’d follow, once more brimstone fell or the demons worked up the courage to attack her.

  She took another breath. Seven.

  “Light it up.” The words filled the Old Square. Filled every square in the city.

  Bryce whipped her head around to look at the Gate as Danika’s voice sounded again. “Light it up, Bryce.”

  The onyx stone of the Bone Quarter glowed like a dark star.

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  Bryce’s face crumpled as she lurched to her feet, sprinting to the Gate.

  She didn’t care how it was possible as Danika said again, “Light it up.”

  Then Bryce was laughing and sobbing as she screamed, “LIGHT IT UP, DANIKA! LIGHT IT UP, LIGHT IT UP, LIGHT IT UP!”

  Bryce slammed her palm onto the bronze disk of the Gate.

  And soul to soul with the friend whom she had not forgotten, the friend who had not forgotten her, even in death, Bryce made the Drop.