A cool male voice spoke above her, behind her, in a language she did not recognize. But the curt words and tone were clear enough: Don’t fucking move.
Bryce lifted her hands and reached for her power. Only splintered shards remained.
The male voice demanded something in that strange language, and Bryce stayed on her knees. He hissed, and then a strong hand clamped on her shoulder, hauling her up and twisting her to face him.
She glimpsed black boots. Dark, scalelike armor over a tall, muscled body.
Wings. Great, black wings. A demon’s wings.
But the male face that stared through the mists, grave and lethal … it was beautiful, despite the fact that his hazel eyes held no mercy. He spoke again, in a soft voice that promised pain.
Bryce couldn’t stop her chest from heaving wildly. “Aidas. I need to see Aidas. Can you take me to him?” Her voice broke.
The winged male swept his gaze over her—assessing and wary. Noted that the blood covering her was not her own. His attention drifted to the Starsword lying in the grass between them. His eyes widened slightly.
Bryce lunged a step toward him, making to grab the front of his intricate armor. He easily sidestepped the move, face impassive as she asked, “Can you take me to Prince Aidas?” She couldn’t stop her tears then. The male’s brows knitted.
“Please,” Bryce begged. “Please.”
The male’s face didn’t soften as he picked up the sheathed Starsword, then gestured for her to step closer.
Bryce obeyed, shaking, wondering if she should be fighting, screaming.
With scarred hands, the demon pulled a scrap of black cloth from a hidden pocket in his armor. Held it up to his face, feigning putting it on. A blindfold.
Bryce breathed in, trying to calm herself as she nodded. The male’s hands were gentle but thorough as he fitted it tightly over her eyes.
Then hands were at her knees and back, and the ground was gone—they were flying.
Only the flap of his leathery wings and the sighing mist filled her ears. So different from the rippling hush of Hunt’s feathers in the wind.
Bryce tried to use the time in the air to stop shaking, but she couldn’t. Couldn’t even form a solid thought.
They glided downward, her stomach tipping with the movement, and then they landed, the thump of the demon’s boots hitting the ground echoing through her. He set her down, taking her by the hand. A door creaked open. Warm air greeted her, then the door shut. He said something she didn’t understand, and then she was toppling forward—
He caught her, and sighed. She could have sworn he sounded … exasperated. He gave no warning as he hauled her over a shoulder and tromped down a set of stairs before entering somewhere … nice-smelling. Roses? Bread?
They ate bread in Hel? Had flowers? A dark, cold world, the Asteri had said in their notes on the planet.
Floorboards groaned beneath his boots, and then Bryce found herself again on solid ground, carpets cushioning her feet. He led her by the hand and pushed her downward. Bryce tensed, fighting it, but he did it again, and she sat. In a comfy chair.
He spoke in that silken voice, and she shook her head. “I don’t understand you,” she said rawly. “I don’t know Hel’s languages. But … Aidas? Prince Aidas?”
He didn’t reply.
“Please,” she repeated. “I need to find Prince Aidas. My world, Midgard—it’s in grave danger, and my mate …” Her voice broke, and she doubled over in the darkness. I will find you again, Hunt had promised.
But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He had no way to get here. And she had no way to get home.
Unless Aidas or Apollion knew how to use the Horn. Had magic that could charge it.
She’d left Hunt and Ruhn. Had run and left them, and … Bryce sobbed. “Oh gods,” she wept. She tore off the blindfold, baring her teeth. “Aidas!” she shouted at the cold-faced male. “Get fucking AIDAS.”
He didn’t so much as blink. Didn’t reveal one hint of emotion, that he cared.
But—this room. This … house?
Dark oak wood floors and furniture. Rich, velvet fabrics. A crackling fire. Books on the shelves lining one wall. A cart of liquor in crystal decanters beside the black marble fireplace. And through the archway beyond the winged male, a foyer and a dining room.
Its style could have fit in with her father’s study. With Jesiba’s gallery.
The male watched cautiously. She swallowed down her tears, straightening her shoulders. Cleared her throat. “Where am I? What level of Hel?”
“Hel?” he said at last.
“Hel, yes, Hel!” She gestured to the house. The complete opposite of what she’d expected. “What level? Pit? Chasm?”
He shook his head, brow furrowing. The front door in the foyer opened, and multiple people rushed in, males and females, all speaking that strange language.
Bryce beheld the first one and shot to her feet.
The petite, dark-haired female with angular eyes like Fury’s drew up short. Her red-painted mouth dropped open, no doubt at the blood all over Bryce’s face and body.
This female was … Fae. Clad in beautiful, yet thoroughly old-fashioned clothes. Like the stuff they wore on Avallen.
Another winged male, broader than the other, swaggered in, a pretty female with brown-gold hair at his side. Also Fae. Also wearing clothes that seemed out of some sort of fantasy film.
Bryce blurted, “I’ve been trying to ask him, but he doesn’t understand. Is this Hel? I need to see Prince Aidas.”
The dark-haired one turned to the others and said something that had them all angling their heads at Bryce. The swaggering male sniffed, trying to read the scent of the blood on her.
Bryce swallowed hard. She knew only one other language, and that one …
Her heart thundered. Bryce said in the ancient language of the Fae, of the Starborn, “Is this world Hel? I need to see Prince Aidas.”
The petite, dark-haired female staggered back, a hand to her mouth. The others gaped. As if the small female’s shock was a rare occurrence. The female eyed the Starsword then. Looked to the first winged male—Bryce’s captor. Nodded to the dark-hilted knife at his side.
The male drew it, and Bryce flinched.
Flinched, but—“What the fuck?” The knife could have been the twin of the Starsword: black hilted and bladed.
It was its twin. The Starsword began to hum within its sheath, glittering white light leaking from where leather met the dark hilt. The dagger—
The male dropped the dagger to the plush carpet. All of them retreated as it flared with dark light, as if in answer. Alpha and Omega.
“Gwydion,” the dark-haired female whispered, indicating the Starsword.
The broader male sucked in a breath. Then said something in that language she couldn’t comprehend. The brunette at his side snapped something back that sounded like a reprimand.
“Is this Hel?” Bryce asked again in the old tongue of the Fae.
The dark-haired female observed Bryce from head to toe: the clothes so thoroughly at odds with their own attire, the blood and cuts. Then she replied in the old tongue, “No one has spoken that language in this world for fifteen thousand years.”
Bryce rubbed at her face. Had she traveled in time, somehow? Or did Hel occupy a different time and—