“I have my suspicions,” she said coolly. “But I am not considering such … changes in my life right now.” She gave him a nod before walking away. “Not with anyone.”
And that was it. His ass had been handed to him.
Today, at least, he’d tried to pay attention. To not look at the witch who had absolutely zero interest in marrying him, thank fuck. With her healing gifts, could she sense whatever was wrong inside him that would mean he was the last of the bloodline? He didn’t want to find out. Ruhn shoved away the memory of the Oracle’s prophecy. He wasn’t the only one ignoring Hypaxia, at least. Jesiba Roga hadn’t spoken one word to her.
Granted, the sorceress hadn’t said much, other than to assert that the House of Flame and Shadow thrived on death and chaos, and had no quarrel with a long, devastating war. Reapers were always happy to ferry the souls of the dead, she said. Even the Archangels had looked disconcerted at that.
As the clock struck nine and all took their seats in the room, Sandriel announced, “Micah has been called away, and will be joining us later.”
Only one person—well, six of them—could summon Micah away from this meeting. Sandriel seemed content to rule over the day’s proceedings, and declared, “We will begin with the mer explaining their shortsighted resistance to the building of a canal for the transportation of our tanks and the continuation of the supply lines.”
The River Queen’s daughter bit her bottom lip, hesitating. But it was Captain Tharion Ketos who drawled to Sandriel, “I’d say that when your war machines rip up our oyster beds and kelp forests, it’s not shortsighted to say that it will destroy our fishing industry.”
Sandriel’s eyes flashed. But she said sweetly, “You will be compensated.”
Tharion didn’t back down. “It is not just about the money. It is about the care of this planet.”
“War requires sacrifice.”
Tharion crossed his arms, muscles rippling beneath his black long-sleeved T-shirt. After the initial parade and that first day of endless meetings, most of them had donned far less formal wear for the rest of the talks. “I know the costs of war, Governor.”
Bold male, to say that, to look Sandriel dead in the eye.
Queen Hypaxia said, her voice soft but unflinching, “Tharion’s concern has merit. And precedent.” Ruhn straightened as all eyes slid toward the witch-queen. She, too, did not back down from the storms in Sandriel’s eyes. “Along the eastern borders of the Rhagan Sea, the coral and kelp beds that were destroyed in the Sorvakkian Wars two thousand years ago have still not returned. The mer who farmed them were compensated, as you claim. But only for a few seasons.” Utter silence in the meeting room. “Will you pay, Governor, for a thousand seasons? Two thousand seasons? What of the creatures who make their homes in places you propose to destroy? How shall you pay them?”
“They are Lowers. Lower than the Lowers,” Sandriel said coldly, unmoved.
“They are children of Midgard. Children of Cthona,” the witch-queen said.
Sandriel smiled, all teeth. “Spare me your bleeding-heart nonsense.”
Hypaxia didn’t smile back. She just held Sandriel’s stare. No challenge in it, but frank assessment.
To Ruhn’s eternal shock, it was Sandriel who looked away first, rolling her eyes and shuffling her papers. Even his father blinked at it. And assessed the young queen with a narrowed gaze. No doubt wondering how a twenty-six-year-old witch had the nerve. Or what Hypaxia might have on Sandriel to make an Archangel yield to her.
Wondering if the witch-queen would indeed be a good bride for Ruhn—or a thorn in his side.
Across the table, Jesiba Roga smiled slightly at Hypaxia. Her first acknowledgment of the young witch.
“The canal,” Sandriel said tightly, setting down her papers, “we shall discuss later. The supply lines …” The Archangel launched into another speech about her plans to streamline the war.
Hypaxia went back to the papers before her. But her eyes lifted to the second ring of tables.
To Tharion.
The mer male gave her a slight, secret smile—gratitude and acknowledgment.
The witch-queen nodded back, barely a dip of her chin.
The mer male just casually lifted his paper, flashing what looked like about twenty rows of markings—counting something.
Hypaxia’s eyes widened, bright with reproach and disbelief, and Tharion lowered the paper before anyone else noticed. Added another slash to it.
A flush crept over the witch-queen’s cheeks.
His father, however, began speaking, so Ruhn ignored their antics and squared his shoulders, trying his best to look like he was paying attention. Like he cared.
None of it would matter, in the end. Sandriel and Micah would get what they wanted.
And everything would remain the same.
Hunt was so bored he honestly thought his brain was going to bleed out his ears.
But he tried to savor these last days of calm and relative comfort, even with Pollux monitoring everything from across the room. Waiting until he could stop appearing civilized. Hunt knew Pollux was counting down the hours until he’d be unleashed upon him.
So every time the asshole smiled at him, Hunt grinned right back.
Hunt’s wings, at least, had healed. He’d been testing them as much as he could, stretching and flexing. If Sandriel allowed him to get airborne, he knew they’d carry him. Probably.
Standing against the wall, dissecting each word spoken, was its own form of torture, but Hunt listened. Paid attention, even when it seemed like so many others were fighting sleep.
He hoped the delegations who held out—the Fae, the mer, the witches—would last until the end of the Summit before remembering that control was an illusion and the Asteri could simply issue an edict regarding the new trade laws. Just as they had with the war update.
A few more days, that was all Hunt wanted. That’s what he told himself.
76
Bryce had camped out in the gallery library for the past three days, staying well after closing and returning at dawn. There was no point in spending much time at the apartment, since her fridge was empty and Syrinx was always with her. She figured she might as well be at the office until she stopped feeling like her home was just an empty shell.
Jesiba, busy with the Summit, didn’t check the gallery video feeds. Didn’t see the takeout containers littering every surface of the library, the mini fridge mostly full of cheese, or the fact that Bryce had started wearing her athletic clothes into the office. Or that she’d begun showering in the bathroom in the back of the library. Or that she’d canceled all their client meetings. And taken a new Archesian amulet right from the wall safe in Jesiba’s office—the very last one in the territory. One of five left in the entire world.
It was only a matter of time, however, until Jesiba got bored and pulled up the dozens of feeds to see everything. Or looked at their calendar and saw all the rescheduled appointments.
Bryce had heard back about two potential new jobs, and had interviews lined up. She’d need to invent some excuse to feed Jesiba, of course. A medwitch appointment or teeth cleaning or something else normal but necessary. And if she got one of those jobs, she’d have to come up with a plan for repaying her debt for Syrinx—something that would please Jesiba’s ego enough to keep her from transforming Bryce into some awful creature just for asking to leave.
Bryce sighed, running a hand over an ancient tome full of legal jargon that required a degree to decipher. She’d never seen so many ergos and therefores and hence the followings and shall be included but not limited tos. But she kept looking.
So did Lehabah. “What about this, BB?” The sprite flared, pointing to a page before her. “It says here, A criminal’s sentence may be commuted to service if—”
“We saw that one two days ago,” Bryce said. “It leads us right back to slavery.”
A faint scratching filled the room. Bryce glanced at the nøkk from under her lashes, car
eful not to let him see her attention.
The creature was grinning at her anyway. Like it knew something she didn’t.
She found out why a moment later.
“There’s another case beneath it,” Lehabah said. “The human woman was freed after—”
Syrinx growled. Not at the tank. At the green-carpeted stairs.
Casual footsteps thudded. Bryce was instantly standing, reaching for her phone.
A pair of boots, then dark jeans, and then—
Snow-white wings. An unfairly beautiful face.
Micah.
Every thought short-circuited as he stepped into the library, surveying its shelves and the stairs leading to the brass mezzanines and alcoves, the tank and the nøkk who was still grinning, the exploding-sun light high above.
He couldn’t be down here. Couldn’t see these books—
“Your Grace,” Bryce blurted.
“The front door was open,” he said. The sheer power behind his stare was like being hit in the face with a brick.
Of course the locks and enchantments hadn’t kept him out. Nothing could ever keep him out.
She calmed her racing heart enough to say, “I’d be happy to meet with you upstairs, Your Grace, if you want me to phone Jesiba.”
Jesiba, who is at the Summit where you are currently supposed to be.
“Down here is fine.” He slowly stalked over to one of the towering shelves.
Syrinx was shaking on the couch; Lehabah hid behind a small stack of books. Even the animals in their various cages and small tanks cowered. Only the nøkk kept smiling.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Your Grace?” Bryce said, scooping takeout containers into her arms, not caring if she got chili oil on her white T-shirt, only that Micah got the fuck away from the shelves and those precious books.
He ignored her, examining the titles at eye level.
Urd save her. Bryce dumped the takeout containers into the overflowing trash can. “We have some fascinating art upstairs. Perhaps you can tell me what you’re looking for.” She glanced at Lehabah, who had turned a startling shade of cyan, and shook her head in a silent warning to be careful.
Micah folded his wings, and turned to her. “What I’m looking for?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I—”
He pinned her with those icy eyes. “I’m looking for you.”
Today’s meeting was by far the worst. The slowest.
Sandriel delighted in leading them in circles, lies and half-truths spewing from her lips, as if savoring the kill soon to come: the moment they yielded everything to her and the Asteri’s wishes.
Hunt leaned against the wall, standing between the Asterian Guards in their full regalia, and watched the clock inch toward four. Ruhn looked like he’d fallen asleep half an hour ago. Most of the lower-level parties had been dismissed, leaving the room barely occupied. Even Naomi had been sent back to Lunathion to make sure the 33rd remained in shape. Only skeleton staff and their leaders remained. As if everyone now knew this was over. That this republic was a sham. Either one ruled or one bowed.
“Opening a new port along the eastern coastline of Valbara,” Sandriel said for the hundredth time, “would allow us to build a secure facility for our aquatic legion—”
A phone buzzed.
Jesiba Roga, to his surprise, pulled it from an inner pocket of the gray blazer she wore over a matching dress. She shifted in her seat, angling the phone away from the curious male to her left.
A few of the other leaders had noticed Roga’s change in attention. Sandriel kept talking, unaware, but Ruhn had stirred at the sound and was looking at the woman. So was Fury, seated two rows behind her.
Jesiba’s thumbs flew over her phone, her red-painted mouth tightening as she lifted a hand. Even Sandriel shut up.
Roga said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Governor, but there’s something that you—that all of us—need to see.”
He had no rational reason for the dread that began to curl in his stomach. Whatever was on her phone could have been about anything. Yet his mouth dried up.
“What?” Sabine demanded from across the room.
Jesiba ignored her, and glanced to Declan Emmet. “Can you link what’s on my phone to these screens?” She indicated the array of them throughout the room.
Declan, who had been half-asleep in the circle behind Ruhn, instantly straightened. “Yeah, no problem.” He was smart enough to look to Sandriel first—and the Archangel rolled her eyes but nodded. Declan’s laptop was open a heartbeat later. He frowned at what popped up on the laptop, but then he hit a button.
And revealed dozens of different video feeds—all from Griffin Antiquities. In the lower right corner, in a familiar library … Hunt forgot to breathe entirely.
Especially as Jesiba’s phone buzzed again, and a message—a continuation of a previous conversation, it seemed—popped up on the screens. His heart stalled at the name: Bryce Quinlan.
His heart wholly stopped at the message. Are the feeds on yet?
“What the fuck?” Ruhn hissed.
Bryce was standing in front of the camera, pouring what seemed to be a glass of wine. And behind her, seated at the main table of the library, was Micah.
Sandriel murmured, “He said he had a meeting …”
The camera was hidden inside one of the books, just above Bryce’s head.
Declan hit a few keys on his computer, pulling up that particular feed. Another keystroke and its audio filled the conference room.
Bryce was saying over her shoulder, throwing Micah a casual smile, “Would you like some food with your wine? Cheese?”
Micah lounged at the table, surveying a spread of books. “That would be appreciated.”
Bryce hummed, covertly typing on her phone as she fiddled on the refreshment cart.
The next message to Jesiba blared across the conference room screens.
One word that had Hunt’s blood going cold.
Help.
It was not a cheeky, charming plea. Not as Bryce lifted her gaze to the camera.
Fear shone there. Stark, bright fear. Every instinct in Hunt went on roaring alert.
“Governor,” the Autumn King said to Sandriel, “I would like an explanation.”
But before Sandriel could reply, Ruhn quietly ordered, with eyes glued to the feeds, “Flynn, send an Aux unit to Griffin Antiquities. Right now.”
Flynn instantly had his phone out, fingers flying.
“Micah has not done anything wrong,” Sandriel snapped at the Fae Prince. “Except demonstrate his poor choice in females.”
Hunt’s snarl ripped from him.
It would have earned him a whip of cold wind from Sandriel, he knew, had the sound not been hidden by matching snarls from Declan and Ruhn.
Tristan Flynn was snapping at someone, “Get over to Griffin Antiquities right now. Yes, in the Old Square. No—just go. That is a fucking order.”
Ruhn barked another command at the Fae lord, but Micah began speaking again.
“You’ve certainly been busy.” Micah motioned to the table. “Looking for a loophole?”
Bryce swallowed as she began assembling a plate for Micah. “Hunt is my friend.”
Those were—those were law books on the table. Hunt’s stomach dropped to his feet.
“Ah yes,” Micah said, leaning back in his chair. “I admire that about you.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Fury bit out.
“Loyal unto death—and beyond,” Micah continued. “Even with all the proof in the world, you still didn’t believe Danika was little better than a drug-addicted whore.”
Sabine and several wolves growled. Hunt heard Amelie Ravenscroft say to Sabine, “We should send a wolf pack.”
“All the top packs are here,” Sabine murmured, eyes fixed on the feed. “Every top security force is here. I only left a few behind.”
But like a struck match, Bryce’s entire countenance shifted. Fear pivoted into bright, sharp anger. Hun
t ordinarily thrilled to see that blazing look. Not now.
Use your fucking head, he silently begged her. Be smart.
Bryce let Micah’s insult settle, surveying the platter of cheese and grapes she was assembling. “Who knows what the truth is?” she asked blandly.
“The philosophers in this library certainly had opinions on the matter.”
“On Danika?”
“Don’t play stupid.” Micah’s smile widened. He gestured to the books around them. “Do you know that harboring these volumes earns you a one-way ticket to execution?”
“Seems like a lot of fuss over some books.”
“Humans died for these books,” Micah purred, motioning to the shelves towering around them. “Banned titles, if I’m not mistaken, many of them supposed to only exist in the Asteri Archives. Evolution, mathematics, theories to disprove the superiority of the Vanir and Asteri. Some from philosophers people claimed existed before the Asteri arrived.” A soft, awful laugh. “Liars and heretics, who admitted they were wrong when the Asteri tortured them for the truth. They were burned alive with the heretical works used as kindling. And yet here, they survive. All the knowledge of the ancient world. Of a world before Asteri. And theories of a world in which the Vanir are not your masters.”
“Interesting,” Bryce said. She still did not turn to face him.
Ruhn said to Jesiba, “What, exactly, is in that library?”
Jesiba said nothing. Absolutely nothing. Her gray eyes promised cold death, though.
Micah went on, unwittingly answering the prince’s question. “Do you even know what you are surrounded by, Bryce Quinlan? This is the Great Library of Parthos.”
The words clanged through the room. Jesiba refused to so much as open her mouth.
Bryce, to her credit, said, “Sounds like a lot of conspiracy theory crap. Parthos is a bedtime story for humans.”
Micah chuckled. “Says the female with the Archesian amulet around her neck. The amulet of the priestesses who once served and guarded Parthos. I think you know what’s here—that you spend your days in the midst of all that remains of the library after most of it burned at Vanir hands fifteen thousand years ago.”
House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City) Page 66
