Hunt smiled at the male’s uncharacteristic relief. “What’s happening on your end?”
“My end?” Isaiah barked a laugh. “What the fuck is happening on your end?”
Too much to say. “Are you at the Comitium?”
“Yeah, and it’s a gods-damned madhouse. I just realized I’m in charge now.”
With Micah a bunch of ashes in a vacuum and Sandriel not much better, Isaiah, as Micah’s Commander of the 33rd, was indeed in charge.
“Congrats on the promotion, man.”
“Promotion my ass. I’m not an Archangel. And these assholes know it.” Isaiah snapped at someone in the background, “Then call fucking maintenance to clean it up.” He sighed.
Hunt asked, “What happened to the Asterian fuckheads who sent their brimstone over the walls?” He had half a mind to fly out there and start unleashing his lightning on those tanks.
“Gone. Already moved off.” Isaiah’s dark tone told Hunt he’d be down for some good old-fashioned retribution, too.
Hunt asked, bracing himself, “Naomi?”
“Alive.” Hunt uttered a silent prayer of thanks to Cthona for that mercy. Then Isaiah said, “Look, I know you’re exhausted, but can you get over here? I could use your help to sort this shit out. All these pissing contests will end pretty damn fast if they see us both in charge.”
Hunt tried not to bristle. Bryce and him getting naked, it seemed, would have to wait.
Because the slave tattoo on his wrist meant he still had to obey the Republic, still belonged to someone other than himself. The list of possibilities wasn’t good. He’d be lucky if he got to stay in Lunathion as the possession of whoever took Micah’s spot, and maybe see Bryce in stolen moments. If he was even allowed outside the Comitium.
Fuck, if they even allowed him to live after what he’d done to Sandriel.
Hunt’s hands began to shake. Any trace of arousal vanished.
But he shrugged a shirt over his head. He’d find some way to survive—some way back to this life with Quinlan he’d barely begun to savor. Unable to help himself, he glanced at his wrist.
He blinked once. Twice.
Bryce was just saying goodbye to her deviant mother when the phone beeped with another call. It was from an unknown number, which meant it was probably Jesiba, so Bryce promised Ember they’d talk tomorrow and switched over. “Hey.”
A young, male voice asked, “Is that how you greet all your callers, Bryce Quinlan?”
She knew that voice. Knew the lanky teenage body it belonged to, a shell to house an ancient behemoth. To house an Asteri. She’d seen and heard it on TV so many times she’d lost count.
“Hello, Your Brilliance,” she whispered.
96
Rigelus, the Bright Hand of the Asteri, had called her house. Bryce’s hands shook so badly she could barely keep the phone to her ear.
“We beheld your actions today and wished to extend our gratitude,” the lilting voice said.
She swallowed, wondering if the mightiest of the Asteri somehow knew she was standing in a towel, hair dripping onto the carpet. “You’re … welcome?”
Rigelus laughed softly. “You have had quite a day, Miss Quinlan.”
“Yes, Your Brilliance.”
“It was a day full of many surprises, for all of us.”
We know what you are, what you did.
Bryce forced her legs to move, to head to the great room. To where Hunt was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, his face pale. His arms slack at his sides.
“To show you how deep our gratitude goes, we would like to grant you a favor.”
She wondered if the brimstone had been a favor, too. But she said, “That’s not necessary—”
“It is already done. We trust you will find it satisfactory.”
She knew Hunt could hear the voice on the line as he walked over.
But he just held out his wrist. His tattooed wrist, with a C stamped over the slave’s mark.
Freed.
“I …” Bryce gripped Hunt’s wrist, then scanned his face. But it was not joy she saw there—not as he heard the voice on the line and understood who had gifted him his freedom.
“We also trust that this favor will serve as a reminder for you and Hunt Athalar. It is our deepest wish that you remain in the city, and live out your days in peace and contentment. That you use your ancestors’ gift to bring yourself joy. And refrain from using the other gift inked upon you.”
Use your starlight as a party trick and never, ever use the Horn.
It made her the biggest idiot in Midgard, but she said, “What about Micah and Sandriel?”
“Governor Micah went rogue and threatened to destroy innocent citizens of this empire with his high-handed approach to the rebel conflict. Governor Sandriel got what she deserved in being so lax with her control over her slaves.”
Fear gleamed in Hunt’s eyes. In her own, too, Bryce was sure. Nothing was ever this easy—this simple. There had to be a catch.
“These are, of course, sensitive issues, Miss Quinlan. Ones that, were they publicly announced, would result in a great deal of trouble for all involved.”
For you. We will destroy you.
“All the witnesses to both events have been notified of the potential fallout.”
“Okay,” Bryce whispered.
“And as for the unfortunate destruction of Lunathion, we do accept full responsibility. We were informed by Sandriel that the city had been evacuated, and sent the Asterian Guard to wipe away the demon infestation. The brimstone missiles were a last resort, intended to save us all. It was incredibly fortunate that you found a solution.”
Liar. Ancient, awful liar. He’d picked the perfect scapegoat: a dead one. The rage that flickered over Hunt’s face told her he shared her opinion.
“I was truly lucky,” Bryce managed to say.
“Yes, perhaps because of the power in your veins. Such a gift can have tremendous consequences, if not handled wisely.” A pause, as if he were smiling. “I trust you shall learn to wield both your unexpected strength and the light within you with … discretion.”
Stay in your lane.
“I will,” Bryce murmured.
“Good,” Rigelus said. “And do you believe it necessary that I contact your mother, Ember Quinlan, to ask for her discretion, too?” The threat gleamed, sharp as a knife. One step out of line, and they knew where to strike first. Hunt’s hands curled into fists.
“No,” Bryce said. “She doesn’t know about the Governors.”
“And she never will. No one else will ever know, Bryce Quinlan.”
Bryce swallowed again. “Yes.”
A soft laugh. “Then you and Hunt Athalar have our blessing.”
The line went dead. Bryce stared at the phone like it was going to sprout wings and fly around the room.
Hunt slumped on the couch, rubbing his face. “Live quietly and normally, keep your mouths shut, never use the Horn, and we won’t fucking kill you and everyone you love.”
Bryce sat on the rolled arm of the couch. “Slay a few enemies, gain twice as many in return.” Hunt grunted. She angled her head. “Why are your boots on?”
“Isaiah needs me at the Comitium. He’s up to his neck in angels wanting to challenge his authority and needs backup.” He arched a brow. “Want to come play Scary Asshole with me?”
Despite everything, despite the Asteri watching and all that had occurred, Bryce smiled. “I have just the outfit.”
Bryce and Hunt made it two steps onto the roof before she caught the familiar scent. Peered over the edge and saw who ran down the street below. A glance at Hunt, and he swept her into his arms, flying her down to the sidewalk. She might have snuck a deep inhale of him, her nose grazing the strong column of his neck.
Hunt’s caress down her spine a moment before he set her down told her he’d caught that little sniff. But then Bryce was standing before Ruhn. Before Fury and Tristan Flynn.
Fury barely gave her a mome
nt before she leapt upon Bryce, hugging her so tightly her bones groaned. “You are one lucky idiot,” Fury said, laughing softly. “And one smart bitch.”
Bryce smiled, her laugh caught in her throat as Fury pulled away. But a thought struck her, and Bryce reached for her phone—no, it was left somewhere in this city. “Juniper—”
“She’s safe. I’m going to check on her now.” Fury squeezed her hand and then nodded to Hunt. “Well done, angel.” And then her friend was sprinting off, blending into the night itself.
Bryce turned back to Ruhn and Flynn. The latter just gaped at her. But Bryce looked to her brother, wholly still and silent. His clothes torn enough to tell her that before the firstlight had healed everything, he’d been in bad shape. Had probably fought his way through this city.
Then Ruhn began babbling. “Tharion went off to help get the evacuees out of the Blue Court, and Amelie ran to the Den to make sure the pups were okay, but we were nearly … we were half a mile away when I heard the Moonwood Gate. Heard you talking through it, I mean. There were so many demons I couldn’t get there, but then I heard Danika, and all that light erupted and …” He halted, swallowing hard. His blue eyes gleamed in the streetlights, dawn still far off. A breeze off the Istros ruffled his black hair. And it was the tears that filled his eyes, the wonder in them, that had Bryce launching forward. Had her throwing her arms around her brother and holding him tightly.
Ruhn didn’t hesitate before his arms came around her. He shook so badly that she knew he was crying.
A scuff of steps told her Flynn was giving them privacy; a cedar-scented breeze flitting past suggested that Hunt had gone airborne to wait for her.
“I thought you were dead,” Ruhn said, his voice shaking as much as his body. “Like ten fucking times, I thought you were dead.”
She chuckled. “I’m glad to disappoint you.”
“Shut up, Bryce.” He scanned her face, his cheeks wet. “Are you … are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. Concern flared in his face, but she didn’t dare give any specifics, not after Rigelus’s phone call. Not with all the cameras around. Ruhn gave her a knowing grimace. Yes, they’d talk about that strange, ancient starlight within her veins later. What it meant for both of them. “Thank you for coming for me.”
“You’re my sister.” Ruhn didn’t bother to keep his voice down. No, there was pride in his voice. And damn if that didn’t hit her in the heart. “Of course I’d come to save your ass.”
She punched his arm, but Ruhn’s smile turned tentative. “Did you mean what you said to Athalar? About me?” Tell Ruhn I forgive him.
“Yes,” she said without a moment of hesitation. “I meant all of it.”
“Bryce.” His face grew grave. “You really thought that I would care more about the Starborn shit than about you? You honestly think I care which one of us it is?”
“It’s both of us,” she said. “Those books you read said such things once happened.”
“I don’t give a shit,” he said, smiling slightly. “I don’t care if I’m called Prince or Starborn or the Chosen One or any of that.” He grabbed her hand. “The only thing I want to be called right now is your brother.” He added softly, “If you’ll have me.”
She winked, even as her heart tightened unbearably. “I’ll think about it.”
Ruhn grinned before his face turned grave once more. “You know the Autumn King will want to meet with you. Be ready.”
“Doesn’t getting a bunch of fancy-ass power mean I don’t have to obey anyone? And just because I forgive you doesn’t mean I forgive him.” She would never do that.
“I know.” Ruhn’s eyes gleamed. “But you need to be on your guard.”
She arched a brow, tucking away the warning, and said, “Hunt told me about the mind-reading.” He’d mentioned it briefly—along with a recap of the Summit and everything that had gone down—on the walk up to the roof.
Ruhn glared at the adjacent rooftop where Hunt stood. “Athalar has a big fucking mouth.”
One she’d like to put to good use on various part of her body, she didn’t say. She didn’t need Ruhn puking on her clean clothes.
Ruhn went on, “And it’s not mind-reading. Just … mind-talking. Telepathy.”
“Does dear old Dad know?”
“No.” And then her brother said into her head, And I’d like to keep it that way.
She started. Creepy. Kindly stay the fuck out of my head, brother.
Gladly. His phone rang, and he glanced at the screen before wincing. “I gotta take this.”
Right, because they all had work to do to get this city to rights—starting with tending to the dead. The sheer number of Sailings would be … she didn’t want to think about it.
Ruhn let the phone ring again. “Can I come over tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said, smirking. “I’ll get your name added to the guest list.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a fucking hotshot.” He rolled his eyes and answered the call. “Hey, Dec.” He strode down the street to where Flynn waited, throwing Bryce a parting grin.
Bryce looked to the rooftop across the street. Where the angel still waited for her, a shadow against the night.
But no longer the Shadow of Death.
97
Hunt stayed at the Comitium barracks that night. Bryce had lost track of the hours they’d worked, first through the night, then into the cloudless day, and finally at sunset she’d been dragging so much that he’d ordered Naomi to fly her home. And presumably ordered her to stand watch, since a dark-winged figure still stood on the adjacent rooftop in the gray light before dawn, and a peek into Hunt’s room revealed that his bed remained made.
But Bryce didn’t dwell on all the work they’d done yesterday, or all that lay ahead. Reorganizing the city’s leadership, Sailings for the dead, and waiting for the big announcement: which Archangel would be tapped by the Asteri to rule over Valbara.
Odds of them being decent were slim to none, but Bryce didn’t dwell on that, either, as she slipped into the still-dim streets, Syrinx tugging on his leash as she tucked her new phone into her pocket. She’d defied the odds yesterday, so maybe the gods would throw them another bone and convince the Asteri to send someone who wasn’t a psychopath.
At the very least, there would be no more death bargains for Hunt. Nothing more to atone for. No, he would be a free and true member of the triarii, if he wished. He had yet to decide.
Bryce waved to Naomi, and the angel waved back. She’d been too tired yesterday to object to having a guard, since Hunt didn’t trust the Asteri, her father, or any other power brokers to stay the Hel away. After letting Syrinx do his business, she shook her head when the chimera made to turn back toward the apartment. “No breakfast yet, buddy,” she said, aiming for the river.
Syrinx yowled with displeasure, but trotted along, sniffing at everything in his path until the broad band of the Istros appeared, its riverside walkway empty at this early hour. Tharion had called her yesterday, promising the River Queen’s full support for any resources she needed.
Bryce hadn’t the nerve to ask whether that support was due to her being the bastard daughter of the Autumn King, a Starborn Fae, or the bearer of Luna’s Horn. Perhaps all of them.
Bryce settled onto one of the wooden benches along the quay, the Bone Quarter a swirling, misty wall across the water. The mer had come—had helped so many escape. Even the otters had grabbed the smallest of the city’s residents and carried them down to the Blue Court. The House of Many Waters had risen to the occasion. The shifters had risen to it.
But the Fae … FiRo had sustained the least damage. The Fae had suffered the fewest casualties. It was no surprise, when their shields had been the first to go up. And had not opened to allow anyone inside.
Bryce blocked out the thought as Syrinx leapt onto the bench beside her, nails clicking on the wood, and plopped his furry butt next to hers. Bryce slid her phone from her pocket and wrote to
Juniper, Tell Madame Kyrah I’ll be at her next dance class.
June wrote back almost immediately. The city was attacked and this is what you’re thinking about? A few seconds later she added, But I will.
Bryce smiled. For long minutes, she and Syrinx sat in silence, watching the light bleed to gray, then to the palest blue. And then a golden thread of light appeared along the Istros’s calm surface.
Bryce unlocked her phone. And read Danika’s final, happy messages one last time.
The light built on the river, gilding its surface.
Bryce’s eyes stung as she smiled softly, then read through Connor’s last words to her.
Message me when you’re home safe.
Bryce began typing. The answer it had taken her two years, nearly to the day, to write.
I’m home.
She sent the message into the ether, willed it to find its way across the gilded river and to the misty isle beyond.
And then she deleted the thread. Deleted Danika’s messages, too. Each swipe of her finger had her heart lightening, lifting with the rising sun.
When they were gone, when she had set them free, she stood, Syrinx leaping to the pavement beside her. She made to turn home, but a glimmer of light across the river caught her eye.
For a heartbeat, just one, the dawn parted the mists of the Bone Quarter. Revealing a grassy shore. Rolling, serene hills beyond. Not a land of stone and gloom, but of light and green. And standing on that lovely shore, smiling at her …
A gift from the Under-King for saving the city.
Tears began rolling down her face as she beheld the near-invisible figures. All six of them—the seventh gone forever, having yielded her eternity. But the tallest of them, standing in the middle with his hand lifted in greeting …
Bryce brought her hand to her mouth, blowing a gentle kiss.
As swiftly as they parted, the mists closed. But Bryce kept smiling, all the way back to the apartment. Her phone buzzed, and Hunt’s message popped up. I’m home. Where are you?
She could barely type as Syrinx tugged her along. Walking Syrinx. I’ll be there in a minute.
Good. I’m making breakfast.
House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City) Page 77
