The Old Language of the Fae didn’t work. Neither did the formal tongue of the Asteri.
So she wrote it in the common language.
Through love, all is possible.
The login screen vanished. And a list of files appeared.
Most were reports on Redner’s latest projects: improving tracking quality on phones; comparing the speed at which shifters could change forms; analyzing the healing rates of witch magic versus Redner medicines. Boring everyday science.
She’d almost given up when she noticed a subfolder: Party Invites.
Danika had never been organized enough to keep such things, let alone put them in a folder. She either deleted them right away or let them rot in her inbox, unanswered.
It was enough of an anomaly that Bryce clicked on it and found a list of folders within. Including one titled Bryce.
A file with her name on it. Hidden in another file. Exactly as Bryce had hidden her own job applications on this computer.
“What is that?” Lehabah whispered at her shoulder.
Bryce opened the file. “I don’t know. I never sent invites to her work address.”
The folder contained a single photo.
“Why does she have a picture of her old jacket?” Lehabah asked. “Was she going to sell it?”
Bryce stared and stared at the image. Then she moved, logging out of the account before running up the stairs to the showroom, where she grabbed the leather jacket from her chair.
“It was a clue,” she said breathlessly to Lehabah as she flew back down the stairs, fingers running and pawing over every seam of the jacket. “The photo is a fucking clue—”
Something hard snagged her fingers. A lump. Right along the vertical line of the L in love.
“Through love, all is possible,” Bryce whispered, and grabbed a pair of scissors from the cup on the table. Danika had even tattooed the hint on Bryce’s fucking back, for fuck’s sake. Lehabah peered over her shoulder as Bryce cut into the leather.
A small, thin metal rectangle fell onto the table. A flash drive.
“Why would she hide that in her coat?” Lehabah asked, but Bryce was already moving again, hands shaking as she fitted the drive into the slot on her laptop.
Three unmarked videos lay within.
She opened the first video. She and Lehabah watched in silence.
Lehabah’s whisper filled the library, even over the scratching of the nøkk.
“Gods spare us.”
64
Hunt had managed to get out of bed and prove himself alive enough that Ruhn Danaan had finally left. He had no doubt the Fae Prince had called his cousin to inform her, but it didn’t matter: Bryce was home in fifteen minutes.
Her face was white as death, so ashen that her freckles stood out like splattered blood. No sign of anything else amiss, not one thread on her black dress out of place.
“What.” He was instantly at the door, wincing as he surged from where he’d been on the couch watching the evening news coverage of Rigelus, Bright Hand of the Asteri, giving a pretty speech about the rebel conflict in Pangera. It’d be another day or two before he could walk without pain. Another several weeks until his wings grew back. A few days after that until he could test out flying. Tomorrow, probably, the insufferable itching would begin.
He remembered every miserable second from the first time he’d had his wings cut off. All the surviving Fallen had endured it. Along with the insult of having their wings displayed in the crystal palace of the Asteri as trophies and warnings.
But she first asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” Lie. Syrinx pranced at his feet, showering his hand with kisses. “What’s wrong?”
Bryce wordlessly closed the door. Shut the curtains. Yanked out her phone from her jacket pocket, pulled up an email—from herself to herself—and clicked on an attached file. “Danika had a flash drive hidden in the lining of her jacket,” Bryce said, voice shaking, and led him back to the couch, helping him to sit as the video loaded. Syrinx leapt onto the cushions, curling up beside him. Bryce sat on his other side, so close their thighs pressed together. She didn’t seem to notice. After a heartbeat, Hunt didn’t, either.
It was grainy, soundless footage of a padded cell.
At the bottom of the video, a ticker read: Artificial Amplification for Power Dysfunction, Test Subject 7.
A too-thin human female sat in the room in a med-gown. “What the fuck is this?” Hunt asked. But he already knew.
Synth. These were the synth research trials.
Bryce grunted—keep watching.
A young draki male in a lab coat entered the room, bearing a tray of supplies. The video sped up, as if someone had increased the speed of the footage for the sake of urgency. The draki male took her vitals and then injected something into her arm.
Then he left. Locked the door.
“Are they …” Hunt swallowed. “Did he just inject her with synth?”
Bryce made a small, confirming noise in her throat.
The camera kept rolling. A minute passed. Five. Ten.
Two Vanir walked into the room. Two large serpentine shifters who sized up the human female locked in alone with them. Hunt’s stomach turned. Turned further at the slave tattoos on their arms, and knew that they were prisoners. Knew, from the way they smiled at the human female shrinking against the wall, why they had been locked up.
They lunged for her.
But the human female lunged, too.
It happened so fast that Hunt could barely track it. The person who had edited the footage went back and slowed it, too.
So he watched, blow by blow, as the human female launched herself at the two Vanir males.
And ripped them to pieces.
It was impossible. Utterly impossible. Unless—
Tharion had said synth could temporarily grant humans powers greater than most Vanir. Powers enough to kill.
“Do you know how badly the human rebels would want this?” Hunt said. Bryce just jerked her chin toward the screen. Where the footage kept going.
They sent in two other males. Bigger than the last. And they, too, wound up in pieces.
Piles.
Oh gods.
Another two. Then three. Then five.
Until the entire room was red. Until the Vanir were clawing at the doors, begging to be let out. Begging as their companions, then they themselves, were slaughtered.
The human female was screaming, her head tilted to the ceiling. Screaming in rage or pain or what, he couldn’t tell without the sound.
Hunt knew what was coming next. Knew, and couldn’t stop himself from watching.
She turned on herself. Ripped herself apart. Until she, too, was a pile on the floor.
The footage cut out.
Bryce said softly, “Danika must have figured out what they were working on in the labs. I think someone involved in these tests … Could they have sold the formula to some drug boss? Whoever killed Danika and the pack and the others must have been high on this synth. Or injected someone with it and sicced them on the victims.”
Hunt shook his head. “Maybe, but how does it tie in to the demons and the Horn?”
“Maybe they summoned the kristallos for the antidote in its venom—and nothing more. They wanted to try to make an antidote of their own, in case the synth ever turned on them. Maybe it doesn’t connect to the Horn at all,” Bryce said. “Maybe this is what we were meant to find. There are two other videos like this, of two different human subjects. Danika left them for me. She must have known someone was coming for her. Must have known when she was on that Aux boat, confiscating that crate of synth, that they’d come after her soon. There was no second type of demon hunting alongside the kristallos. Just a person—from this world. Someone who was high on the synth and used its power to break through our apartment’s enchantments. And then had the strength to kill Danika and the whole pack.”
Hunt considered his next words carefully, fighting against his racing mind. “It could work, Bryce. But the Horn is still out there, with a drug that might be able to repair it, coincidence or no. And we’re no closer to finding it.” No, this just led them a Hel of a lot closer to trouble. He added, “Micah already demonstrated what it means to set one foot out of line. We need to go slow on the synth hunt. Make sure we’re certain this time. And careful.”
“None of you were able to find out anything like this. Why should I go slow with the only clue I have about who killed Danika and the Pack of Devils? This ties in, Hunt. I know it does.”
And because she was opening her mouth to object again, he said what he knew would stop her. “Bryce, if we pursue this and we’re wrong, if Micah learns about another fuckup, forget the bargain being over. I might not walk away from his next punishment.”
She flinched.