Hunt examined the various tanks throughout the room and the assortment of reptiles within them, then the empty waters of the massive aquarium. “I thought he was some designer pet.”
“Oh, he is,” Lehabah said. “Syrinx was stolen from his mother as a cub, then traded for ten years around the world, then Jesiba bought him to be her pet, then Bryce bought him—his freedom, I mean. She even had proof of his freedom certified. No one can ever buy him again.” She pointed to the chimera. “You can’t see it with him lying down like that, but he’s got the freed brand on his front right paw. The official C and everything.”
Hunt twisted from the gloomy water to look Bryce over.
She crossed her arms. “What? You did the assuming.”
His eyes flickered. Whatever the fuck that meant.
She tried not to look at his own wrist, though—the SPQM stamped there. She wondered if he was resisting the same urge; if he was contemplating whether he’d ever get that C one day.
But then Lehabah said to Hunt, “How much do you cost to buy, Athie?”
Bryce cut in, “Lele, that’s rude. And don’t call him Athie.”
She sent up a puff of smoke. “He and I are of the same House, and are both slaves. My great-grandmother fought in his 18th Legion during their rebellion. I am allowed to ask.”
Hunt’s face wholly shuttered at the mention of the rebellion, but he approached the couch, let Syrinx sniff his fingers, then scratched the beast behind his velvety ears. Syrinx let out a low growl of pleasure, his lion’s tail going limp.
Bryce tried to block out the squeezing sensation in her chest at the sight of it.
Hunt’s wings rustled. “I was sold to Micah for eighty-five million gold marks.”
Bryce’s heel snagged on the carpet as she reached Lehabah’s little station and grabbed the tablet. Lehabah again floated over to the angel. “I cost ninety thousand gold marks,” Lehabah confided. “Syrie was two hundred thirty-three thousand gold marks.”
Hunt’s eyes snapped to Bryce. “You paid that?”
Bryce sat at the worktable and pointed to the empty chair beside hers. Hunt followed obediently, for once. “I got a fifteen percent employee discount. And we came to an arrangement.”
Let that be that.
Until Lehabah declared, “Jesiba takes some out of each paycheck.” Bryce growled, reining in the instinct to smother the sprite with a pillow. “BB will be paying it off until she’s three hundred. Unless she doesn’t make the Drop. Then she’ll die first.”
Hunt dropped into his seat, his wing brushing her arm. Softer than velvet, smoother than silk. He snapped it in tight at the touch, as if he couldn’t bear the contact. “Why?”
Bryce said, “Because that warlord wanted to hurt and break him until he was a fighting beast, and Syrinx is my friend, and I was sick of losing friends.”
“I thought you were loaded.”
“Nope.” She finished the word on a popping noise.
Hunt’s brow furrowed. “But your apartment—”
“The apartment is Danika’s.” Bryce couldn’t meet his gaze. “She bought it as an investment. Had its ownership written in our names. I didn’t even know it existed until after she died. And I would have just sold it, but it had top-notch security, and grade A enchantments—”
“I get it,” he said again, and she shrank from the kindness in his eyes. The pity.
Danika had died, and she was alone, and—Bryce couldn’t breathe.
She’d refused to go to therapy. Her mother had set up appointment after appointment for the first year, and Bryce had bailed on all of them. She’d bought herself an aromatherapy diffuser, had read up on breathing techniques, and that had been that.
She knew she should have gone. Therapy helped so many people—saved so many lives. Juniper had been seeing a therapist since she was a teenager and would tell anyone who would listen about how vital and brilliant it was.
But Bryce hadn’t shown up—not because she didn’t believe it would work. No, she knew it would work, and help, and probably make her feel better. Or at least give her the tools to try to do so.
That was precisely why she hadn’t gone.
From the way Hunt was staring at her, she wondered if he knew it—realized why she blew out a long breath.
Look toward where it hurts the most.
Fucker. The Viper Queen could go to Hel with her pro tips.
She turned on Lehabah’s electronic tablet. The screen revealed a vampyr and wolf tangled in each other, groaning, naked—
Bryce laughed. “You stopped watching in the middle of this to come bother me, Lele?”
The air in the room lightened, as if Bryce’s sorrow had cracked at the sight of the wolf pounding into the moaning vampyr female.
Lehabah burned ruby. “I wanted to meet Athie,” she muttered, slinking back to her couch.
Hunt, as if despite himself, chuckled. “You watch Fangs and Bangs?”
Lehabah shot upright. “That is not what it’s called! Did you tell him to say that, Bryce?”
Bryce bit her lip to keep from laughing and grabbed her laptop instead, bringing up her emails with Tertian on the screen. “No, I didn’t.”
Hunt raised a brow, with that wary amusement.
“I’m taking a nap with Syrie,” Lehabah declared to no one in particular. Almost as soon as she said it, something heavy thumped on the mezzanine.
Hunt’s hand went to his side, presumably for the gun there, but Lehabah hissed toward the railing, “Do not interrupt my nap.”
A heavy slithering filled the library, followed by a thump and rustle. It didn’t come from Miss Poppy’s tank.
Lehabah said to Hunt, “Don’t let the books sweet-talk you into taking them home.”
He threw her a half smile. “You’re doing a fine job ensuring that doesn’t happen.”
Lehabah beamed, curling along Syrinx’s side. He purred with delight at her warmth. “They’ll do anything to get out of here: sneak into your bag, the pocket of your coat, even flop up the stairs. They’re desperate to get into the world again.” She flowed toward the distant shelves behind them, where a book had landed on the steps. “Bad!” she seethed.
Hunt’s hand slid within easy reach of the knife at his thigh as the book, as if carried by invisible hands, drifted up the steps, floated to the shelf, and found its place again, humming once with golden light—as if in annoyance.
Lehabah cast a warning simmer toward it, then wrapped Syrinx’s tail around herself like a fur shawl.
Bryce shook her head, but a sidelong glance told her that Hunt was now staring at her. Not in the way that males tended to stare at her. He said, “What’s up with all the little critters?”
“They’re Jesiba’s former lovers and rivals,” Lehabah whispered from her fur-blanket.
Hunt’s wings rustled. “I’d heard the rumors.”
“I’ve never seen her transform anyone into an animal,” Bryce said, “but I try to stay on her good side. I’d really prefer not to be turned into a pig if Jesiba gets pissed at me for fucking up a deal.”
Hunt’s lips twitched upward, as if caught between amusement and horror.
Lehabah opened her mouth, presumably to tell Hunt all the names she’d given the creatures in the library, but Bryce cut her off, saying to Hunt, “I called you because I started to make that list of all of Danika’s movements during her final days.” She patted the page she’d started writing on.
“Yeah?” His dark eyes remained on her face.
Bryce cleared her throat and admitted, “It’s, um, hard. To make myself remember. I thought … maybe you could ask me some questions. Help get the … memories flowing.”
“Ah. Okay.” Silence rippled again as she waited for him to remind her that time wasn’t on their side, that he had a fucking job to do and she shouldn’t be such a wimp, blah blah.
But Hunt surveyed the books; the tanks; the door to the bathroom at the back of the space; the lights high above, disguised like the stars painted across the ceiling. And then, rather than ask her about Danika, he said, “Did you study antiquities at school?”
“I took a few classes, yeah. I liked learning about old crap. I was a classical literature major.” She added, “I learned the Old Language of the Fae when I was a kid.” She’d taught herself out of a sudden interest in learning more about her heritage. When she’d gone to her father’s house a year later—for the first time in her life—she’d hoped to use it to impress him. After everything went to shit, she’d refused to learn another language. Childish, but she didn’t care.
Though knowing the most ancient of the Fae languages had been helpful for this job, at least. For the few Fae antiquities that weren’t hoarded in their glittering troves.
Hunt again surveyed the space. “How’d you get this job?”
“After I graduated, I couldn’t get a job anywhere. The museums didn’t want me because I didn’t have enough experience, and the other art galleries in town were run by creeps who thought I was … appetizing.” His eyes darkened, and she made herself ignore the rage she beheld there on her behalf. “But my friend Fury …” Hunt stiffened slightly at the name—he clearly knew her reputation. “Well, she and Jesiba worked together in Pangera at some point. And when Jesiba mentioned that she needed a new assistant, Fury basically shoved my résumé down her throat.” Bryce snorted at the memory. “Jesiba offered me the job because she didn’t want an uptight priss. The work is too dirty, customers too shady. She needed someone with social skills as well as a little background in ancient art. And that was that.”
Hunt considered, then asked, “What’s your deal with Fury Axtar?”
“She’s in Pangera. Doing what Fury does best.” It wasn’t really an answer.
“Axtar ever tell you what she gets up to over there?”
“No. And I like it to stay that way. My dad told me enough stories about what it’s like. I don’t enjoy imagining what Fury sees and deals with.” Blood and mud and death, science versus magic, machines versus Vanir, bombs of chemicals and firstlight, bullets and fangs.
Randall’s own service had been mandatory, a condition of life for any non-Lower in the peregrini class: all humans had to serve in the military for three years. Randall had never said it, but she’d always known the years on the front had left deep scars beyond those visible on him. Being forced to kill your own kind was no small task. But the Asteri’s threat remained: Should any refuse, their lives would be forfeit. And then the lives of their families. Any survivors would be slaves, their wrists forever inked with the same letters that marred Hunt’s skin.
“There’s no chance Danika’s murderer might have been connected to—”
“No.” Bryce growled. She and Fury might be totally fucked up right now, but she knew that. “Fury’s enemies weren’t Danika’s enemies. Once Briggs was behind bars, she bailed.” Bryce hadn’t seen her since.
Searching for anything to change the topic, Bryce asked, “How old are you?”
“Two hundred thirty-three.”
She did the math, frowning. “You were that young when you rebelled? And already commanded a legion?” The angels’ failed rebellion had been two hundred years ago; he’d have been incredibly young—by Vanir standards—to have led it.
“My gifts made me invaluable to people.” He held up a hand, lightning writhing around his fingers. “Too good at killing.” She grunted her agreement. Hunt eyed her. “You ever killed before?”
“Yes.”