House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City) (42 page)

Cormac stared her down, his jaw working.

She gave him a slash of a smile that set Hunt’s blood thrumming. “Not used to females giving you orders?”

“There are plenty of females in Command.” Cormac’s nostrils flared. “And I would advise you to behave as a Fae female ought to when we are seen together in public. It shall be hard enough to convince others of our betrothal thanks to that smell on you.”

“What smell?” Bryce said, and Hunt braced his feet. She could take care of herself in a fight, but he’d still enjoy pummeling the bastard.

Cormac motioned between her and Hunt. “You think I can’t scent what went down between you two?”

Bryce leaned back against the cushions. “You mean, that
he
went down on me?”

Hunt choked, and Ruhn let out a garbled string of curses. Ithan walked to the coffee machine and muttered something about it being too early.

Cormac, however, didn’t so much as blush. He said gravely, “Your mingling scents will jeopardize this ruse.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Bryce said, and then winked at Hunt.

Gods, she’d tasted like a dream. And the sweet, breathy sounds she made when she came … Hunt rolled out the tautness in his shoulders. They had a long day ahead of them. A dangerous day.

They were going to the Bone Quarter today, for fuck’s sake. The street camera footage had pinpointed that the Reaper who’d attacked Bryce and Ruhn had been within a block of the Black Dock, but
even with Declan’s skills, they hadn’t found any concrete proof of the Reaper sailing over. It was enough of a link that they’d question the Under-King about it, though. And if they got through that, then Hunt planned to have a long, long night. He’d already made a reservation at a fancy-ass hotel restaurant. And reserved a large suite. With rose petals and champagne.

Cormac drummed his fingers on the table and said to Bryce, “If you find Emile in the Bone Quarter, let me know immediately.” Bryce, to Hunt’s surprise, didn’t object. Cormac pivoted to Ruhn, jerking his chin to the door. “We need to get going. If that supply train is leaving in three days, we can’t waste a moment.” He looked sharply at Hunt. “Even if it’s bad intel.”

“I’m ready.” Ruhn got to his feet. He frowned at his sister. “Good hunting. Stay out of trouble today, please.”

“Right back at you.” Bryce grinned, though Hunt noted that her attention was on the Starsword—as if she were speaking to it, pleading with it to protect her brother. Then her gaze slid to Cormac, who already stood at the door. “Be careful,” she said pointedly to Ruhn.

The warning was clear enough:
Don’t trust Cormac entirely.

Ruhn nodded slowly. The male might have claimed he’d changed since trying to kill the prince decades ago, but Hunt didn’t trust him, either.

Ruhn turned toward Ithan as the wolf aimed for the discarded laptop on the couch. “Look, I hate to drag anyone else into our shit, but … you want to come?”

Holstrom jerked his chin toward the laptop. “What about the footage?”

“It can wait a few hours—you can look through any flagged sections when we get back. We could use your skills today.”

“What skills?” Bryce demanded. Pure, protective alarm. “Being good at sunball doesn’t count.”

“Thanks, Bryce,” Ithan grumbled, and before Ruhn could supply a reason for inviting the wolf, he said, “Sabine will have a fit if I’m caught helping you.”

That was the least of what would happen if he was caught
aiding rebels. Hunt tried not to shift his wings, tried to halt the echo of agony through them.

“You don’t answer to Sabine anymore,” Ruhn countered.

Ithan considered. “I guess I’m already in this mess.” Hunt could have sworn guilt and worry filled Bryce’s face. She chewed her bottom lip, but didn’t challenge Ithan further.

“Okay,” Ithan continued, plugging in the laptop. “Let me get dressed.”

Bryce turned warily toward the black box on the counter. The looming, thrumming Death Marks within. But she said, “Right, Athalar. Time to be on our way. Suit up.”

Hunt followed Bryce back into her bedroom—their bedroom now, he supposed—to see her pick up a holster and prop her leg on the bed. Her short pink skirt slid back, revealing that lean, long expanse of golden leg. His mind went blank as she strapped the holster around her upper thigh.

Her fingers snagged on the buckle, and Hunt was instantly there to help, savoring the silken warmth of her bare skin. “You’re really wearing this to the Bone Quarter?” He drifted a hand to toy with the soft pleats of the skirt. No matter that her gun would be useless against any Reapers that came their way.

“It’s a thousand degrees today and humid. I’m not wearing pants.”

“What if we get into trouble?” He might have taken far longer on the buckle than necessary. He knew she was letting him.

She smiled wickedly. “Then I suppose the Under-King will get a nice view of my ass.”

He gave her a flat look.

Bryce rolled her eyes, but said, “Give me five minutes to change.”

29

“I think he knows we’re coming,” Bryce whispered to Hunt as they stood on the edge of the Black Dock and peered through the mist swarming the Istros. Thankfully, there had been no Sailings today. But a path through the mists spread ahead—an opening through which they’d sail to get to the Bone Quarter.

She knew, because she’d sailed through it herself once.

“Good,” Hunt said, and Bryce caught his glance at the Starsword she’d sheathed down her back. Ruhn had left it for her with the note:
Bring it. Don’t be stupid.

For once in her life, she’d listened.

And Ruhn had listened when she’d encouraged him, in their swift mind-to-mind conversation, not to trust Cormac. His invitation to Ithan had been the result.

She could only pray they’d stay safe. And that Cormac was true to his word.

Bryce shifted, tucking the thoughts away, the half-rotted black wood beneath her shoes creaking. She’d wound up changing into black leggings and a gray T-shirt before leaving. Yet even with the mist, the heat somehow continued, turning her clothes into a sticky second skin. She should have stayed in the skirt. If only because it had allowed her to conceal the gun—which she’d left behind
after Hunt had mortifyingly reminded her of its uselessness against anything they’d encounter in the Bone Quarter.

“Well, here goes,” Bryce said, fishing out the onyx coin from the pocket in the back of her waistband. The stifling, earthen smell of mold stuffed itself up her nostrils, as if the coin itself were rotting.

Hunt pulled his coin from a compartment in his battle-suit and sniffed, frowning. “It smells worse the closer we get to the Bone Quarter.”

“Then good riddance.” Bryce flipped the Death Mark with her thumb into the fog-veiled water below. Hunt’s followed. Both only made one ripple before they went rushing toward the Bone Quarter, hidden from view.

“I’m sure a few people have told you this,” a male voice said behind them, “but that is a very bad idea.”

Bryce whirled, but Hunt bristled. “What the fuck do you want, Baxian?”

The Helhound emerged like a wraith from the mist, wearing his own battle-suit. Shadows had settled beneath his dark eyes, like he hadn’t slept in a while. “Why are you here?”

“I’d like to know the same,” Hunt bit out.

Baxian shrugged. “Enjoying the sights,” he said, and Bryce knew it for the lie it was. Had he followed them? “I thought we were supposed to be paired up, Athalar. You never showed. Does Celestina know about this?”

“It’s my day off,” Hunt said. Which was true. “So no. It’s none of her business. Or yours. Go report to Isaiah. He’ll give you something to do.”

Baxian’s attention shifted to Bryce, and she held his stare. His gaze dipped to the scar on her chest, only the upper spikes of the star visible above the neckline of her T-shirt. “Who are you going to see over there?” His voice had gone low, dangerous.

“The Under-King,” Bryce said cheerfully. She could feel Hunt’s wariness growing with each breath.

Baxian blinked slowly, as if reading the threat emanating from Athalar. “I can’t tell if that’s a joke, but if it isn’t, you’re the dumbest people I’ve ever met.”

Something stirred behind them, and then a long, black boat appeared from the slender path in the mists, drifting toward the dock. Bryce reached out a hand for the prow. Her fingers curled over the screaming skeleton carved into its arch. “Guess you’ll have to wait to find out,” she said, and leapt in.

She didn’t look back as Hunt climbed in after her, the boat rocking with his weight. It pulled away from the Black Dock along that narrow path, leaving Baxian behind to watch until the mists swallowed him.

“You think he’ll say anything?” Bryce whispered into the gloom as the path ahead vanished, too.

Hunt’s voice was strained, gravelly as it floated toward her. “I don’t see why he would. You were attacked by Reapers yesterday. We’re going to talk to the Under-King about it today. There’s nothing wrong or suspicious about that.”

“Right.” This shit with Ophion had her overthinking every movement.

Neither of them spoke after that. Neither of them dared.

The boat sailed on, across the too-silent river, all the way to the dark and distant shore.

Hunt had never seen such a place. Knew in his bones he never wanted to see it again.

The boat advanced with no sail, no rudder, no rower or ferryman. As if it were pulled by invisible beasts toward the isle across the Istros. The temperature dropped with each foot, until Hunt could hear Bryce’s teeth clacking through the mist, so thick her face was nearly obscured.

The memory of Baxian nagged at him. Snooping asshole.

But he had a feeling that the Helhound wouldn’t go blabbing. Not yet. Baxian was more likely to gather intel, to shadow their every move and then strike when he had enough to damn them.

Hunt would turn him into smoldering cinders before he could do that, though. What a fucking mess.

The boat jolted, colliding with something with a
thunk
.

Hunt stiffened, lightning at his fingertips. But Bryce rose, graceful as a leopard, the Starsword’s dark hilt muted and matte in the dimness.

The boat had stopped at the base of worn, crumbling steps. The mists above them parted to reveal an archway of carved, ancient bone, brown with age in spots.
Memento Mori
, it said across the top.

Hunt interpreted its meaning differently here than in the Meat Market:
Remember that you will die, and end here. Remember who your true masters are.

The hair on Hunt’s arms rose beneath his battle-suit. Bryce leapt from the boat with Fae elegance, twisting to offer a hand back to him. He took it, only because he wanted to touch her, feel her warmth in this lifeless place.

But her hands were icy, her skin drab and waxy. Even her shimmering hair had dulled. His own skin appeared paler, sickly. As if the Bone Quarter already sucked the life from them.

He interlaced their fingers as they strode up the seven steps to the archway and tucked all the worries and fears regarding Baxian, regarding this rebellion, deep within him. They’d only be a distraction.

His boots scuffed on the steps. Here, Bryce had once knelt. Right here, she’d traded her resting place for Danika’s. He squeezed her hand tighter. Bryce squeezed back, leaning into him as they stepped under the archway.

Dry ground lay beyond. Mist, and grayness, and silence. Marble and granite obelisks rose like thick spears, many inscribed—but not with names. Just with strange symbols. Grave markers, or something else? Hunt scanned the gloom, ears straining for any hint of Reapers, of the ruler they sought.

And for any hint of Emile, or Sofie. But not one footprint marked the ground. Not one scent lingered in the mist.

The thought of the kid hiding out here … of any living being dwelling here … Fuck.

Bryce whispered, voice thick, “It’s supposed to be green. I saw a land of green and sunlight.” Hunt lifted a brow, but her
eyes—now a flat yellow—searched the mists. “The Under-King showed me the Pack of Devils after the attack on the city.” Her words shook. “Showed me that they rested here among shining meadows. Not … this.”

“Maybe the living aren’t allowed to see the truth unless the Under-King allows it.” She nodded, but he read the doubt tightening her ashen face. He said, “No sign of Emile, unfortunately.”

Bryce shook her head. “Nothing. Though I don’t know why I thought it’d be easy. It’s not like he’d be camped out here in a tent or something.”

Hunt, despite himself, offered her a half smile. “So we head to the boss, then.” He kept scanning the mists and earth for any hint of Emile or his sister as they continued on.

Bryce halted suddenly between two black obelisks, each engraved with a different array of those odd symbols. The obelisks—and dozens more beyond them—flanked what seemed to be a central walkway stretching into the mist.

She drew the Starsword, and Hunt didn’t have time to stop her before she whacked it against the side of the closest obelisk. It clanked, its ringing echoing into the gloom. She did it again. Then a third time.

“Ringing the dinner bell?” Hunt asked.

“Worth a shot,” Bryce muttered back. And smarter than running around shouting Emile’s and Sofie’s names. Though if they were as survival-savvy as they seemed, Hunt doubted either would come running to investigate.

As the noise faded, what remained of the light dimmed. What remained of the warmth turned to ice.

Someone—something—had answered.

The other being they sought here.

Their breath hung in the air, and Hunt angled himself in front of Bryce, monitoring the road ahead.

When the Under-King spoke, however, in a voice simultaneously ancient and youthful but cold and dry, the sound came from behind them. “This land is closed to you, Bryce Quinlan.”

A tremor went through Bryce, and Hunt rallied his power, lightning crackling in his ears. But his mate said, “I don’t get a VIP pass?”

The voice from the mist echoed around them. “Why have you come? And brought Orion Athalar with you?”