“We’ll be here for hours,” the captain countered, frowning.
Tharion just settled into the chair, glancing to the first mate sheltering against the side of the vestibule.
They knew what they were getting into by coming here. Knew what kind of storms stalked these seas at this point in the year. If the shifter got tired of the wind and rain, he could jump beneath the waves.
Even if a shark in these waters was the least of the terrors.
Three and a half hours later, Tharion lifted a hand. “Go back to the right. No—yeah. There. Can you get closer?”
The remote submersible had floated past boiling-hot sea vents, past muck and rock and all manner of strange creatures. But there, tucked among a cluster of red-and-white tuber worms … a square rock.
Only Vanir or human hands could have made it.
“I’ll be damned,” the captain murmured, leaning toward the screen, the light illuminating her angular face. “Those are lead blocks.”
He suppressed a shiver. The River Queen had been right. Down to the last detail. “Circle them.”
But … Chains draped from the block onto the seafloor. They were empty.
The captain observed, “Whoever those chains held is long gone. They either got eaten or they exploded from the pressure.”
Tharion marked the chains, nodding. But his gaze snagged on something.
He glanced at the captain to see if she’d noticed the anomaly, but her face revealed no sign of surprise. So Tharion kept silent, letting her bring the small submersible back up to the surface, where the first mate hauled it onto the deck.
Two hours later, back on land—soggy and muddy from the rain—Tharion calmed his chattering teeth long enough to call his queen.
The River Queen answered after the first ring. “Talk.”
Used to the curt, yet ethereal voice, Tharion said, “I found the lead blocks. The chains were still attached.”
“So?”
“There was no body.” A sigh of disappointment. He shivered yet again—not entirely from the cold. “But the shackles had been unlocked.”
The sigh paused. He’d learn to read her pauses, as varied as the life in her river. “You’re sure of this?”
He refrained from asking why the currents hadn’t told her about this particularly vital detail. Maybe they were as capricious as she. Tharion said mildly, “No signs of damage. At least as far as I could tell on the crappy screen.”
“You think Sofie Renast freed herself?”
“I don’t know.” Tharion climbed into the black SUV that he’d drive to the private heliport in the north of Pangera, and turned the heat to full blast. It’d probably take the entire hour’s drive inland to warm his frozen body. “But I sure as Hel don’t think she ever made it to the seafloor.”
Tharion drove down the rough road, mud spraying, windshield wipers swishing faintly.
His queen said, “Then either someone got there before us … or Sofie is alive. Interesting, that the water did not whisper of that. As if it were silenced.” Tharion had a feeling he knew where this was going. “Find her,” she ordered. “I’d bet my court that she’s looking for her brother. She went to great lengths to free him from Kavalla. The sea whispered that he is as gifted as she. Find him, and we find her. And vice versa. But even if we only find the boy … he will be valuable indeed.”
Tharion didn’t dare ask why she wanted either of them. He could invent reasons for wanting the rebel, but the boy … Emile Renast had his sister’s gift, and that was it. A powerful one, but he was a kid. Hadn’t even made the Drop. And as far as Tharion knew, his queen wasn’t in the habit of using child soldiers. But Tharion couldn’t say anything other than: “I’ll begin the search immediately.”
6
Bryce tore through the cabinet beneath her sink. Bottles of hair products, old makeup palettes, dead blow-dryers flew out and scattered behind her. Where the fuck had she put it—
There. Bryce yanked out the white first aid kit, Syrinx doing a little dance next to her. As if the golden-furred chimera had found it himself. Cheeky pup.
Leaping to her feet as she opened the lid, she rifled through the antiseptic ointment, bandages, and vial of pain-relieving potion. She frowned down at Syrinx. “This stuff never goes bad, right?”
Syrinx scrunched his snout, huffing as if to say, Beats me!
Bryce scratched under his chin and returned to the great room to find Hunt crouching beside Ithan, whom they’d laid out on the coffee table. Ithan’s face … Burning Solas.
Well, he was awake. And talking. She hoped he hadn’t heard her and Hunt bickering over where to put his barely conscious form a moment ago. Hunt had wanted to set Ithan on the couch, and Bryce hadn’t been able to stop herself from shrieking about ruining the white cushions. So the coffee table it was.
Hunt and Ithan were murmuring too low for Bryce to understand, and they halted as she approached. Though she could detect no outward sign of it, Hunt’s lightning seemed to crackle in the air around him. Or maybe that was Hunt’s presence, once again doing funny things to her senses. Bryce lifted the first aid kit. “Found it.”
Ithan grunted. “It’s … it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Your mouth literally started bleeding again saying that,” Bryce said, dropping the kit on the table next to Ithan before fishing inside for sterile wipes. She hadn’t seen him since the attack last spring. Hadn’t spoken to him.
Bryce waved a hand over the bruised and swollen face that held no resemblance to the handsome, charming features she’d once known so well. “I don’t even know where to start with this … mess.” She didn’t just mean his face.
“You and me both,” Ithan mumbled, and hissed as Bryce dabbed at a slice across his brow. He pulled his head from her reach. “It’ll heal. That one’s already smaller.”
“I’d guess claws made that,” Hunt said, arms crossed. Syrinx hopped onto the sectional, turned in a circle three times, then curled up in a ball.
Ithan said nothing. Bryce reached for the wound again, but he pulled his head farther back, wincing in pain.
“Why the fuck are you here, Ithan?” Hunt’s voice was like gravel.
Ithan’s brown eyes, one half-swollen, met Bryce’s. Ire glowed in them. “I didn’t tell them to bring me here. Perry … my pack’s Omega … She arranged it.”
A fuzzy memory of a brown-haired female emerged. Perry … Ravenscroft. Amelie’s younger sister. “She did this to you?”
Ithan huffed a raw laugh, then winced. His ribs must be—
Bryce lifted Ithan’s bloody gray T-shirt, revealing disgustingly carved abs and—“Holy shit, Ithan.”
He yanked the shirt back over the extensive bruising. “It’s fine.”
“Those look like broken ribs,” Hunt said wryly.
“Definitely broken ribs, Athalar,” Bryce replied, sitting back on her heels. “And a broken arm, from the way he’s cradling it.”
“Skull fracture’s healed,” Hunt observed with equal distance, as if they were on one of his favorite Vanir crime procedurals. Ithan’s eyes flashed again.