Ithan slung the leash back onto its hook. “You got it, bud.”
“Approachable Asshole, huh?”
Bryce leaned against the bars of the immaculate cell beneath the Comitium, frowning at where Hunt sat on a steel-framed cot, head hanging. He straightened at her words, gray wings tucking in. His face— Bryce stiffened. “What the fuck, Hunt?”
Black eye, swollen lip, cuts along his temple, his hairline … “I’m fine,” he grumbled, even though he looked as bad as Ithan. “Who called you?”
“Your new boss—she filled me in. She sounds nice, by the way.” Bryce pressed her face through the bars. “Definitely nice, since she hasn’t kicked your ass to the curb yet.”
“She did put me in this cell.”
“Isaiah put you in the cell.”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t whatever me.” Gods, she sounded like her mother.
His voice sharpened. “I’ll see you at home. You shouldn’t be here.”
“And you shouldn’t have gotten into a stupid fight, but here you are.”
Lightning forked down his wings. “Go home.”
Was he—was he really pissed she was here? She snorted. “Were you intentionally trying to sabotage yourself today?”
Hunt shot to his feet, then winced at whatever pain it summoned in his battered body. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
A deep male voice answered, “Because you’re a stupid bastard.”
Bryce grimaced. She’d forgotten about Pollux.
Hunt snarled, “I don’t want to hear your fucking voice.”
“Get used to it,” said another male voice from the elevator bay at the end of the white hall.
Bryce found a tall, lean angel approaching with a natural elegance. Not beautiful, not in the way that Hunt and Pollux and Isaiah were, but … striking. Intense and focused.
Baxian Argos, the Helhound. An angel with the rare ability to shift into the form that had given him his nickname.
Hunt had told her about him, too. Baxian hadn’t ever tortured Hunt or others, as far as she knew—but he’d done plenty of awful things in Sandriel’s name. He’d been her chief spy-master and tracker.
Baxian bared his teeth in a fierce smile. Hunt bristled.
Like Hel would these males make her back down.
Pollux crooned from his cell, his pretty-boy face as battered as Hunt’s, “Why don’t you come a little closer, Bryce Quinlan?”
Hunt growled. “Don’t talk to her.”
Bryce snapped, “Spare me the protective alphahole act.” Before Hunt could reply, she’d stalked over to Pollux’s cell.
Pollux made a show of looking her over from head to stilettos. “I thought your kind usually worked the night shift.”
Bryce snickered. “Any other outdated jabs to throw my way?” At Pollux’s silence, Bryce said, “Sex work is a respectable profession in Crescent City. It’s not my fault Pangera hasn’t caught up with modern times.”
Pollux brimmed with malice. “Micah should have killed you and been done with it.”
She let her eyes glow—let him see that she knew all he’d done to Hunt, how much she detested him. “That’s the best you can come up with? I thought the Hammer was supposed to be some kind of sadistic badass.”
“And I thought half-breed whores were supposed to keep their mouths closed. Fortunately, I know the perfect thing to shove in that trap of yours to shut you up.”
Bryce winked saucily. “Careful. I use teeth.” Hunt coughed, and Bryce leaned forward—close enough that if Pollux extended an arm, his hand could wrap around her throat. Pollux’s eyes flared, noting that fact. Bryce said sweetly, “I don’t know who you pissed off to be sent to this city, but I’m going to make your life a living Hel if you touch him again.”
Pollux lunged, fingers aiming for her neck.
She let her power surge, bright enough that Pollux reared back, an arm flung over his eyes. Bryce’s lips quirked to the side. “I thought so.”
She backed away a few steps, pivoting toward Hunt once more. He cocked an eyebrow, eyes shining beneath the bruises. “Fancy, Quinlan.”
“I aim to impress.”
A low laugh whispered behind her, and Bryce found the Helhound now leaning against the wall opposite the cells, beside a large TV.
“I take it I’ll be seeing more of you than I’d like,” Bryce said.
Baxian sketched a bow. He wore lightweight black armor made of overlapping plates. It reminded her of a reptilian version of Hunt’s suit. “Maybe you’ll give me a tour.”
“Keep dreaming,” Hunt muttered.
The Helhound’s dark eyes gleamed. He turned on his heel and said before entering the elevator, “Glad someone finally put a bullet through Micah’s head.”
Bryce stared after him in stunned silence. Had he come down here for any reason other than to say that? Hunt whooshed out a breath. Pollux remained pointedly silent in his cell.
Bryce gripped the bars of Hunt’s cell. “No more fights.”
“If I say yes, can we go home now?” He gave her a mournful pout almost identical to Syrinx’s begging.
Bryce suppressed her smile. “Not my call.”
A fair female voice floated from an intercom in the ceiling. “I’ve seen enough. He’s free to go, Miss Quinlan.” The bars hissed, the door unlocking with a clank.
Bryce said to the ceiling, “Thank you.”
Pollux growled from his cell, “And what of me? I didn’t start this fight.” The shithead had balls. Bryce would give him that.
Celestina answered coolly, “You also didn’t do anything to defuse it.”
“Forgive me for fighting back while being pummeled by a brute.”
From the corner of her eye, Bryce could have sworn Hunt was grinning wickedly.
The Governor said, voice taking on a no-bullshit sharpness, “We shall discuss this later.” Pollux was wise enough not to snap a reply. The Archangel went on, “Keep Athalar in line, Miss Quinlan.”
Bryce waved at the camera mounted beside the TV. When Celestina didn’t answer, Bryce stepped back to allow Hunt out of the cell. He limped toward her, badly enough that she looped her arm around his waist as they aimed for the elevator.
Pollux sneered from his cell, “You two mongrels deserve each other.”
Bryce blew him a kiss.
11
Tharion needed a new job.
Honestly, even years into the position, he had no idea how he’d wound up in charge of the River Queen’s intelligence. His schoolmates probably laughed every time his name came up: a thoroughly average, if not lazy, student, he’d gotten his passing grades mostly through charming his teachers. He had little interest in history or politics or foreign languages, and his favorite subject in school had been lunch.
Maybe that had primed him. People were far more inclined to talk over food. Though anytime he’d tortured an enemy, he’d puked his guts up afterward. Fortunately, he’d learned that a cold beer, some mirthroot, and a few rounds of poker usually got him what he needed.
And this: research.
Normally, he’d tap one of his analysts to pore over his current project, but the River Queen wanted this kept secret. As he sat before the computer in his office, all it took was a few keystrokes to access what he wanted: Sofie Renast’s email account.