I told you to warn that girl to stay quiet.
Find the Horn.
Like calls to like.
An appropriate marriage.
Produce an heir.
You owe it to our bloodline.
Ruhn slammed the door behind him. Only when he’d gotten halfway down the hall did he laugh, a harsh, rasping sound. At least the asshole still didn’t know that he’d lied about what the Oracle had told him all those decades ago.
With every step out of his father’s villa, Ruhn could once more hear the Oracle’s unearthly whispering, reading the smoke while he’d trembled in her dim marble chamber:
The royal bloodline shall end with you, Prince.
15
Syrinx pawed at the window, his scrunched-up face smooshed against the glass. He’d been hissing incessantly for the past ten minutes, and Bryce, more than ready to settle into the plush cushions of the L-shaped couch and watch her favorite Tuesday night reality show, finally twisted to see what all the fuss was about.
Slightly bigger than a terrier, the chimera huffed and pawed at the floor-to-ceiling glass, the setting sun gilding his wiry golden coat. The long tail, tufted with dark fur at the end like a lion’s, waved back and forth. His folded little ears were flat to his round, fuzzy head, his wrinkles of fat and the longer hair at his neck—not quite a mane—were vibrating with his growling, and his too-big paws, which ended in birdlike talons, were now—
“Stop that! You’re scratching the glass!”
Syrinx looked over a rounded, muscled shoulder, his squished face more dog than anything, and narrowed his dark eyes. Bryce glared right back.
The rest of her day had been long and weird and exhausting, especially after she’d gotten a message from Juniper, saying Fury had alerted her about Briggs’s innocence and the new murder, and warning Bryce to be careful. She doubted either friend knew of her involvement in finding the murderer, or of the angel who’d been assigned to work with her, but it had stung—just a bit. That Fury hadn’t bothered to contact her personally. That even June had done it over messaging and not face-to-face.
Bryce had a feeling tomorrow would be just as draining—if not worse. So throwing in a battle of wills with a thirty-pound chimera wasn’t her definition of a much-needed unwinding.
“You just got a walk,” she reminded Syrinx. “And an extra helping of dinner.”
Syrinx gave a hmmph and scratched the window again.
“Bad!” she hissed. Half-heartedly, sure, but she tried to sound authoritative.
Where the little beast was concerned, dominance was a quality they both pretended she had.
Groaning, Bryce hauled herself from the nest of cushions and padded across wood and carpet to the window. On the street below, cars inched past, a few late commuters trudged home, and some dinner patrons strolled arm-in-arm to one of the fine restaurants along the river at the end of the block. Above them, the setting sun smeared the sky red and gold and pink, the palm trees and cypresses swayed in the balmy spring breeze, and … And that was a winged male sitting on the opposite roof. Staring right at her.
She knew those gray wings, and the dark, shoulder-length hair, and the cut of those broad shoulders.
Protection duty, Micah had said.
Bullshit. She had a strong feeling the Governor still didn’t trust her, alibi or no.
Bryce gave Hunt Athalar a dazzling smile and slashed the heavy curtains shut.
Syrinx yowled as he was caught in them, reversing his stout little body out of the folds. His tail lashed from side to side, and she braced her hands on her hips. “You were enjoying the sight?”
Syrinx showed all his pointy teeth as he let out another yowl, trotted to the couch, and threw himself onto the warmed cushions where she’d been sitting. The portrait of despair.
A moment later, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. Right as her show began.
She didn’t know the number, but she wasn’t at all surprised when she picked up, plopping down onto the cushions, and Hunt growled, “Open the curtains. I want to watch the show.”
She propped both bare feet on the table. “I didn’t know angels deigned to watch trash TV.”
“I’d rather watch the sunball game that’s on right now, but I’ll take what I can get.”
The idea of the Umbra Mortis watching a dating competition was laughable enough that Bryce hit pause on the live show. At least she could now speed through commercials. “What are you doing on that roof, Athalar?”
“What I was ordered to do.”
Gods spare her. “Protecting me doesn’t entitle you to invade my privacy.” She could admit to the wisdom in letting him guard her, but she didn’t have to yield all sense of boundaries.
“Other people would disagree.” She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “I’ve got my orders. I can’t disobey them.”
Her stomach tightened. No, Hunt Athalar certainly could not disobey his orders.
No slave could, whether Vanir or human. So she instead asked, “And how, exactly, did you get this number?”
“It’s in your file.”
She tapped her foot on the table. “Did you pay Prince Ruhn a visit?” She would have handed over a gold mark to watch her brother go head-to-head with Micah’s personal assassin.
Hunt grunted, “Isaiah did.” She smiled. “It was standard protocol.”
“So even after your boss tasked me with finding this murderer, you felt the need to look into whether my alibi checked out?”
“I didn’t write the fucking rules, Quinlan.”
“Hmm.”
“Open the curtains.”
“No, thank you.”
“Or you could invite me in and make my job easier.”
“Definitely no.”
“Why?”
“Because you can do your job just as well from that roof.”
Hunt’s chuckle skittered along her bones. “We’ve been ordered to get to the bottom of these murders. So I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but we’re about to get real up close and personal.”
The way he said sweetheart—full of demeaning, condescending swagger—made her grind her teeth.
Bryce rose, padding to the floor-to-ceiling window under Syrinx’s careful watch, and tugged the curtains back enough to see the angel standing on the opposite roof, phone to his ear, gray wings slightly flared, as if balancing against the wind. “I’m sure you get off on the whole protector-of-damsels thing, but I was asked to head this case. You’re the backup.”
Even from across the street, she could see him roll his eyes. “Can we skip this pecking-order bullshit?”
Syrinx nudged at her calves, then shoved his face past her legs to peer at the angel.
“What is that pet of yours?”
“He’s a chimera.”
“Looks expensive.”
“He was.”
“Your apartment looks pretty damn expensive, too. That sorceress must pay you well.”
“She does.” Truth and lie.
His wings flared. “You have my number now. Call it if something goes wrong, or feels wrong, or if you need anything.”
“Like a pizza?”
She clearly saw the middle finger Hunt lifted above his head. Shadow of Death, indeed.
Bryce purred, “You would make a good delivery boy with those wings.” Angels in Lunathion never stooped to such work, though. Ever.
“Keep the damn curtains open, Quinlan.” He hung up.
She just gave him a mocking wave. And shut the curtains entirely.
Her phone buzzed with a message just as she plopped down again.
Do you have enchantments guarding your apartment?
She rolled her eyes, typing back, Do I look stupid?
Hunt fired back, Some shit is going down in this city and you’ve been gifted with grade A protection against it—yet you’re busting my balls about boundaries. I think that’s answer enough regarding your intelligence.
Her thumbs flew over the screen as she scowled and wrote, Kindly fly the fuck off.
She hit send before she could debate the wisdom of saying that to the Umbra Mortis.
He didn’t reply. With a smug smile, she picked up her remote.
A thud against the window had her leaping out of her skin, sending Syrinx scrambling in a mad dash toward the curtains, yowling his fuzzy head off.
She stormed around the couch, whipping the curtains back, wondering what the fuck he’d thrown at her window—
The Fallen angel hovered right there. Glaring at her.
She refused to back away, even as her heart thundered. Refused to do anything but shove open the window, the wind off his mighty wings stirring her hair. “What?”
His dark eyes didn’t so much as blink. Striking—that was the only word Bryce could think of to describe his handsome face, full of powerful lines and sharp cheekbones. “You can make this investigation easy, or you can make it hard.”
“I don’t—”
“Spare me.” Hunt’s dark hair shifted in the wind. The rustle and beat of his wings overpowered the traffic below—and the humans and Vanir now gawking up at him. “You don’t appreciate being watched, or coddled, or whatever.” He crossed his muscled arms. “Neither of us gets a say in this arrangement. So rather than waste your breath arguing about boundaries, why don’t you make that list of suspects and Danika’s movements?”
“Why don’t you stop telling me what I should be doing with my time?”
She could have sworn she tasted ether as he growled, “I’m going to be straight with you.”
“Goody.”
His nostrils flared. “I will do whatever the Hel it takes to solve this case. Even if it means tying you to a fucking chair until you write those lists.”
She smirked. “Bondage. Nice.”
Hunt’s eyes darkened. “Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re the Umbra Mortis.”
His teeth flashed. “I don’t care what you call me, Quinlan, so long as you do what you’re told.”
Fucking alphahole.