Athalar’s mouth curled in a crooked grin, catching Bryce’s drift. “We find the demon, we find who’s behind this. And if we have the Horn …”
Ruhn grimaced. “The kristallos will come to us.”
Bryce glanced to the empty-handed statue behind them. “Better get cracking, Ruhn.”
Hunt leaned against the entry pillars atop the steps leading into Luna’s Temple, his phone at his ear. He’d left Quinlan inside with her cousin, needing to make this phone call before they could sort out logistics. He would have made the call right there, but the moment he’d pulled up his contacts list, he’d earned a snipe from Bryce about mobile phones in sacred spaces.
Cthona spare him. Declining to tell her to fuck off, he’d decided to spare them a public scene and stalked out through the cypress-lined courtyard and to the front steps.
Five temple acolytes emerged from the sprawling villa behind the temple itself, bearing brooms and hoses to clean the temple steps and the flagstones beyond it for their midday washing.
Unnecessary, he wanted to tell the young females. With the misting rain yet again gracing the city, the hoses were superfluous.
Teeth gritted, he listened to the phone ring and ring. “Pick the fuck up,” he muttered.
A dark-skinned temple acolyte—black-haired, white-robed, and no more than twelve—gaped at him as she walked past, clutching a broom to her chest. He nearly winced, realizing the portrait of wrath he now presented, and checked his expression.
The Fae girl still kept back, the golden crescent moon dangling from a delicate chain across her brow glinting in the gray light. A waxing moon—until she became a full-fledged priestess upon reaching maturity, when she would trade the crescent for the full circle of Luna. And whenever her immortal body began to age and fade, her cycle vanishing with it, she would again trade the charm, this time for a waning crescent.
The priestesses all had their own reasons for offering themselves to Luna. For forsaking their lives beyond the temple grounds and embracing the goddess’s eternal maidenhood. Just as Luna had no mate or lover, so they would live.
Hunt had always thought celibacy seemed like a bore. Until Shahar had ruined him for anyone else.
Hunt offered the shrinking acolyte his best attempt at a smile. To his surprise, the Fae girl offered a small one back. The girl had courage.
Justinian Gelos answered on the sixth ring. “How’s babysitting?”
Hunt straightened. “Don’t sound so amused.”
Justinian huffed a laugh. “You sure Micah’s not punishing you?”
Hunt had considered the question a great deal in the past two days. Across the empty street, the palm trees dotting the rain-soft grasses of the Oracle’s Park shone in the gray light, the domed onyx building of the Oracle’s Temple veiled in the mists that had rolled in over the river.
Even at midday, the Oracle’s Park was near-empty, save for the hunched, slumbering forms of the desperate Vanir and humans who wandered the paths and gardens, waiting for their turn to enter the incense-filled hallways.
And if the answers they sought weren’t what they’d hoped … Well, the white-stoned temple on whose steps Hunt now stood could offer some solace.
Hunt glanced over his shoulder to the dim temple interior just visible through the towering bronze doors. In the firstlight from a row of shimmering braziers, he could just barely make out the gleam of red hair in the quiet gloom of the inner sanctum, shining like molten metal as Bryce talked animatedly with Ruhn.
“No,” Hunt said at last. “I don’t think this assignment was punishment. He was out of options and knew I’d cause more trouble if he stationed me on guard duty around Sandriel.” And Pollux.
He didn’t mention the bargain he’d struck with Micah. Not when Justinian bore the halo as well and Micah had never shown much interest in him beyond his popularity with the grunt troops of the 33rd. If there was any sort of deal to earn his freedom, Justinian had never said a word.
Justinian blew out a breath. “Yeah—shit’s getting intense around here right now. People are on edge and she hasn’t even arrived yet. You’re better off where you are.”
A glassy-eyed Fae male stumbled past the steps of the temple, got a good look at who was barring entry into the temple itself—and aimed for the street, staggering toward the Oracle’s Park and the domed building in its heart. Another lost soul looking for answers in smoke and whispers.
“I’m not so sure of that,” Hunt said. “I need you to look up something for me—an old-school demon. The kristallos. Just search through the databases and see if anything pops up.” He’d have asked Vik, but she was already busy going through the alibi footage from the Viper Queen.
“I’ll get on it,” Justinian said. “I’ll message over any results.” He added, “Good luck.”
“I’ll need it,” Hunt admitted. In a hundred fucking ways.
Justinian added slyly, “Though it doesn’t hurt that your partner is easy on the eyes.”
“I gotta go.”
“No one gets a medal for suffering the most, you know,” Justinian pushed, his voice slipping into uncharacteristic seriousness. “It’s been two centuries since Shahar died, Hunt.”
“Whatever.” He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with Justinian or anyone.
“It’s admirable that you’re still holding out for her, but let’s be realistic about—”
Hunt hung up. Debated throwing his phone against a pillar.
He had to call Isaiah and Micah about the Horn. Fuck. When it had gone missing two years ago, top inspectors from the 33rd and the Aux had combed this temple. They’d found nothing. And since no cameras were allowed within the temple walls, there had been no hint of who might have taken it. It had been nothing more than a stupid prank, everyone had claimed.
Everyone except for the Autumn King, it seemed.
Hunt hadn’t paid much attention to the theft of the Horn, and sure as fuck hadn’t listened during history lessons as a boy about the First Wars. And after Danika’s and the Pack of Devils’ murders, they’d had bigger things to worry about.
He couldn’t tell what was worse: the Horn possibly being a vital piece of this case, or the fact that he’d now have to work alongside Ruhn Danaan to find it.
22
Bryce waited until Hunt’s muscled back and beautiful wings had disappeared through the inner sanctum’s gates before she whirled on Ruhn. “Did the Autumn King do it?”
Ruhn’s blue eyes glimmered in his shadow-nest or whatever the fuck he called it. “No. He’s a monster in so many ways, but he wouldn’t kill Danika.”
She’d come to that conclusion the other night, but she asked, “How can you be so sure? You have no idea what the Hel his long-term agenda is.”
Ruhn crossed his arms. “Why ask me to hunt for the Horn if he’s summoning the kristallos?”
“Two trackers are better than one?” Her heart thundered.
“He’s not behind this. He’s just trying to take advantage of the situation—to restore the Fae to their former glory. You know how he likes to delude himself with that kind of crap.”
Bryce trailed her fingers through the wall of shadows, the darkness running over her skin like mist. “Does he know you came to meet with me?”
“No.”
She held her brother’s stare. “Why …” She struggled for words. “Why bother?”
“Because I want to help you. Because this shit puts the entire city at risk.”
“How very Chosen One of you.”
Silence stretched between them, so taut it trembled. She blurted, “Just because we’re working together doesn’t mean anything changes between us. You’ll find the Horn, and I’ll find who’s behind this. End of story.”
“Fine,” Ruhn said, his eyes cold. “I wouldn’t expect you to consider listening to me anyway.”
“Why would I listen to you?” she seethed. “I’m just a half-breed slut, right?”
Ruhn stiffened, a flush flaring. “You know
it was a dumb fight and I didn’t mean that—”
“Yes, you fucking did,” she spat, and turned on her heel. “You might dress like you’re a punk rebelling against Daddy’s rules, but deep down, you’re no better than the rest of the Fae shitheads who kiss your Chosen One ass.”
Ruhn snarled, but Bryce didn’t wait before shoving through the shadows, blinking at the flood of light that greeted her, and aiming for where Hunt had paused at the doors.
“Let’s go,” she said. She didn’t care what he’d overheard.
Hunt lingered in place, his black eyes flickering as he gazed toward the shadowed back of the room, where her so-called cousin was again veiled in darkness. But the angel thankfully said nothing as he fell into step beside her, and she said nothing more to him.
Bryce practically ran back to the gallery. In part to start researching the Horn again, but also thanks to the flurry of messages from Jesiba, demanding to know where she was, whether she still wanted her job, and whether she’d prefer to be turned into a rat or a pigeon. And then an order to get back now to greet a client.
Five minutes after Bryce got there, Jesiba’s client—a raging asshole of a leopard shifter who believed he was entitled to put his paws all over her ass—prowled in and purchased a small statue of Solas and Cthona, portrayed as a sun with male features burying his face in a pair of mountain-shaped breasts. The holy image was known simply as the Embrace. Her mother even wore its simplified symbol—a circle nestled atop two triangles—as a silver pendant. But Bryce had always found the Embrace cheesy and cliché in every incarnation. Thirty minutes and two blatant rejections to his slimy come-ons later, Bryce was mercifully alone again.
But in the hours she looked, the gallery’s databases for Luna’s Horn revealed nothing beyond what she already knew, and what her brother had claimed that morning. Even Lehabah, gossip queen extraordinaire, didn’t know anything about the Horn.
With Ruhn heading back to the Fae Archives to see if any more information appealed to his Starborn sensibilities, she supposed she’d have to wait for an update.
Hunt had gone to take watch on the roof, apparently needing to make calls to his boss—or whatever Micah pretended he was—and Isaiah regarding the Horn. He hadn’t tried to come back down to the library, as if sensing she needed space.
Look toward where it hurts the most. That’s always where the answers are.
Bryce found herself staring down at the half-finished list she’d started that morning.
She might not be able to find much on the Horn itself, but maybe she could figure out how the Hel Danika factored into all of it.
Hands shaking, she made herself finish the list of Danika’s locations—as far as she knew.
By the time the sun was near setting, and Syrinx was ready to be walked home, Bryce would have traded what was left of her soul to a Reaper just for the quiet comfort of her bed. It had been a long fucking day, full of information she needed to process, and a list that she’d left in her desk drawer.
It must have been a long day for Athalar, too, because he trailed her and Syrinx from the skies without saying a word to her.
She was in bed by eight, and didn’t even remember falling asleep.
23
The next morning, Bryce was sitting at the reception desk in the gallery’s showroom, staring at her list of Danika’s last locations, when her phone rang.
“The deal with the leopard went through,” she said to Jesiba by way of greeting. The paperwork had been finalized an hour ago.
“I need you to go up into my office and send me a file from my computer.”
Bryce rolled her eyes, refraining from snipping, You’re welcome, and asked, “You don’t have access to it?”
“I made sure this one wasn’t on the network.”
Nostrils flaring, Bryce rose, her leg throbbing slightly, and walked to the small door in the wall adjacent to the desk. A hand on the metal panel beside it had the enchantments unlocking, the door swinging open to reveal the tight, carpeted staircase upward.
“When I want things done, Bryce, you’re to do them. No questions.”
“Yes, Jesiba,” Bryce muttered, climbing the stairs. Dodging the reaching hands of the leopard shifter yesterday had twinged something in her bad leg.
“Would you like to be a worm, Bryce?” Jesiba purred, voice sliding into something eerily close to a Reaper’s rasp. At least Jesiba wasn’t one of them—even if Bryce knew the sorceress often dealt with them in the House of Flame and Shadow. Thank the gods none had ever shown up at the gallery, though. “Would you like to be a dung beetle or a centipede?”
“I’d prefer to be a dragonfly.” Bryce entered the small, plush office upstairs. One wall was a pane of glass that overlooked the gallery floor a level below, the material utterly soundproof.
“Be careful what you ask of me,” Jesiba went on. “You’d find that smart mouth of yours shut up fairly quickly if I transform you. You wouldn’t have any voice at all.”
Bryce calculated the time difference between Lunathion and the western shores of Pangera and realized Jesiba had probably just come back from dinner. “That Pangeran red wine is heady stuff, isn’t it?” She was almost to the wooden desk when the firstlights flicked on. A rack of them illuminated the dismantled gun hanging on the wall behind the desk, the Godslayer Rifle gleaming as fresh as it had the day it’d been forged. She could have sworn a faint whine radiated from the gold and steel—like the legendary, lethal gun was still ringing after a shot.
It unnerved her that it was in here, despite the fact that Jesiba had split it into four pieces, mounted like a work of art behind her desk. Four pieces that could still be easily assembled, but it put her clients at ease, even while it reminded them that she was in charge.
Bryce knew the sorceress never told them about the six-inch engraved golden bullet in the safe beside the painting on the right wall. Jesiba had shown it to her just once, letting her read the words etched onto the bullet: Memento Mori.
The same words that appeared in the mosaic in the Meat Market.
It’d seemed melodramatic, but some part of her had marveled at it—at the bullet and at the rifle, so rare only a few existed in Midgard.
Bryce powered up Jesiba’s computer, letting the female rattle off instructions before sending the file. Bryce was halfway down the stairs again when she asked her boss, “Have you heard anything new about Luna’s Horn?”
A long, contemplative pause. “Does it have to do with this investigation of yours?”
“Maybe.”
Jesiba’s low, cold voice was an embodiment of the House she served. “I haven’t heard anything.” Then she hung up. Bryce gritted her teeth as she headed back to her desk on the showroom floor.
Lehabah interrupted her by whispering through the iron door, “Can I see Athie now?”
“No, Lele.”
He’d kept his distance this morning, too. Good.
Look toward where it hurts the most.
She had her list of Danika’s locations. Unfortunately, she knew what she had to do next. What she’d woken up this morning dreading. Her phone rang in her clenched hand, and Bryce steeled herself for Jesiba calling to bitch that she’d fucked up the file, but it was Hunt.
“Yeah?” she asked by way of greeting.
“There’s been another murder.” His voice was tight—cold.
She nearly dropped the phone. “Who—”
“I’m still getting the details. But it was about ten blocks from here—near the Gate in the Old Square.”
Her heart beat so fast she could scarcely draw breath to say, “Any witnesses?”
“No. But let’s go over there.”
Her hands shook. “I’m busy,” she lied.
Hunt paused. “I’m not fucking around, Quinlan.”
No. No, she couldn’t do it, endure it, see it again—
Bryce forced herself to breathe, practically inhaling the peppermint vapors from the diffuser. “There’s a client com
ing—”
He banged on the gallery door, sealing her fate. “We’re leaving.”
Bryce’s entire body was taut to the point of near-trembling as she and Hunt approached the magi-screens blocking the alley a few blocks away from the Old Square Gate.
She tried to breathe through it, tried all the techniques she’d read and heard about regarding reining in her dread, that sickening plunging feeling in her stomach. None of them worked.
Angels and Fae and shifters milled about the alley, some on radios or phones.
“A jogger found the remains,” Hunt said as people parted to let him pass. “They think it happened sometime last night.” He added carefully, “The 33rd’s still working on getting an ID, but from the clothes, it looks like an acolyte from Luna’s Temple. Isaiah is already asking the temple priestesses who might be missing.”
All sounds turned into a blaring drone. She didn’t entirely remember the walk over.
Hunt edged around the magi-screen blocking the crime scene from view, took one look at what lay there, and swore. He whirled toward her, as if realizing what he was dragging her back into, but too late.
Blood had splashed across the bricks of the building, pooled on the cracked stones of the alley floor, splattered on the sides of the dumpster. And beside that dumpster, as if someone had chucked them out of a bucket, sat clumps of red pulp. A torn robe lay beside the carnage.
The droning turned into a roar. Her body pulled farther away.
Danika howling with laughter, Connor winking at her, Bronson and Zach and Zelda and Nathalie and Thorne all in hysterics—
Then nothing but red pulp. All of them, all they had been, all she had been with them, became nothing more than piles of red pulp.
Gone, gone, gone—
A hand gripped her shoulder. But not Athalar’s. No, Hunt remained where he was, face now hard as stone.
She flinched as Ruhn said at her ear, “You don’t need to see this.”
This was another murder. Another body. Another year.
A medwitch even knelt before the body, a wand buzzing with firstlight in her hands, trying to piece the corpse—the girl—back together.
House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City) Page 25
