She nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Hunt.”
He strode for the door, tucking in his wings. He halted at the doorway. “You don’t need to feel guilty, you know. About the shit that happened to me.”
She angled her head. “Why?”
He gave her a half smile. “If I’d gone to you in Nena, I never would have come here. To Lunathion.” His smile broadened as he walked out. “I never would have met Bryce.”
And every horror, every nightmare … all of it had been worth it for her.
Hunt found Baxian waiting at the end of the hallway, the male’s arms crossed, bruised face solemn. “How’d your special time go?” Baxian asked by way of greeting.
“What the fuck do you want?” Hunt strode toward the veranda at the far end of the hall. He’d pay Bryce a lunchtime visit. Maybe they’d get naked. That sounded really fucking good.
“The old gang’s getting back together in a few weeks. I assume you were warning Celestina about it.”
“You’re a bunch of sadistic psychos.” Hunt stepped onto the empty veranda. The wind whipped at his hair, carrying the fresh scent of the Istros from across the city. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon, and lightning danced in his veins. “I’d hardly call you the old gang.”
Baxian’s mouth twitched upward, bruises stretching.
Hunt said, “I’m not buying whatever bullshit you’re selling by beating the Hel out of Pollux.”
“New city, new rules,” Baxian said, black feathers rustling. “New boss, who doesn’t seem to like Pollux all that much.”
“So?” Hunt spread his wings.
“So I don’t have to pretend anymore,” Baxian said. He lifted his face to the darkening sky. “Storm’s coming. Be careful up there.”
“Thanks for your concern.” Hunt flapped once, feet lifting.
“I’m not trying to fuck you over.”
“You’re trying to be a pain in my ass, then?”
Baxian snorted. “Yeah, I guess.”
Hunt settled back to the ground. “What was that shit with you and Pollux—about his seconds?”
Baxian slid his hands into his pockets. “He’s a jealous fucker. You know that.”
Hunt could think of only one person Pollux had ever shown any preference for beyond Sandriel. “You have a thing for the Hind?”
Baxian barked a laugh. “Fuck no. Pollux is the only person insane enough to go near her. I wouldn’t touch Lidia with a ten-foot pole.”
Hunt studied the male who had been his enemy for so long he’d lost track of the years. Something had changed. Something big, and primal, and … “What the fuck went on with Sandriel after I left?”
Baxian smirked. “Who says it had anything to do with Sandriel?”
“Why can’t anyone give me a direct answer these days?”
Baxian cocked a brow. Thunder growled its warning in the distance. “You tell me your secrets, Athalar, and I’ll tell you mine.”
Hunt flipped him off. He didn’t bother saying goodbye before launching into the darkening sky.
But he couldn’t shake the sense that Baxian continued to watch him. As if he’d left something vital hanging in the balance. It seemed only a matter of time before it returned to bite him in the ass.
23
Ithan kept a step back from the small crowd of mer emergency workers gathered around Captain Ketos—and the body. He’d scented death before they’d even approached the pristine stretch of the Istros an hour north of Lunathion, a pretty green spot amid the oaks of the small forest. They’d taken wave skimmers up the Blue, as this section of the river was nearly inaccessible by foot. He supposed he might have made the run easily in his wolf form, but after getting one sniff of the corpse from a mile downriver, he was glad not to be in that body.
“Selkie female,” Tharion was saying to the small group assembled, wiping the sweat from his brow. Even in the shadow of the mighty oaks, the sun baked the forest into kindling.
Ithan swigged from his canteen. He should have worn shorts and sandals instead of the black jeans and boots of the Aux. He had no business wearing these clothes anyway.
Tharion went on, surveying the little heap by the river’s edge. It had been found this morning by a passing otter. “Killed execution-style.”
Death was nothing new. Ithan just wished he hadn’t become so well acquainted with it that at age twenty-two, it was already something he barely batted an eye at. But that was the life of a wolf. Of a Holstrom.
Tharion pointed. “Gorsian bullet to the right thigh to keep her from shifting into her seal form, then a slow bleed-out from a slice to her left femoral artery. Repeated lacerations indicate the murderer reopened the thigh incision continuously to keep her bleeding until she died.”
Cthona spare him. “Or until whoever it was got their answers,” Ithan said.
The group—three of Tharion’s people—turned his way. He’d been brought for one reason—to use his nose. Apparently, that hadn’t included speaking.
“Or that,” Tharion said, crossing his arms with a pointedness that said:
Keep it quiet; I have the same instinct you do about this.
At least, that was what Ithan thought it conveyed. He’d gotten pretty good at assessing others’ expressions and tells thanks to his years on the sunball field.
Tharion said to the group, “Right. Continue documenting the scene, then let’s see if we can find a name for her.” People peeled away to follow his orders, and Tharion stepped aside to sniff the air.
A male voice spoke from Ithan’s left. “Hey, you used to play sunball, right?” Ithan found a ruddy-faced mer in a blue BCIU windbreaker standing a few feet away, a walkie-talkie in hand.
Ithan grunted. “Yeah.”
“For CCU—you were that Holstrom kid.”
Were. Everything in his life was were these days. You were Connor’s brother. You were part of a pack. You were in the Aux. You were a sunball player. You were Bryce’s friend. You were normal. You were happy.
“One and only.”
“Why’d you quit? You could be, like, MVP in the pros right now.”
Ithan didn’t smile, tried his best to appear disinterested. “Had other plans.”
“Than playing sunball professionally?” The male gaped. As if a selkie’s ravaged body didn’t lie mere feet away.
Everyone was watching now. Ithan had grown up with eyes on him like that—had triumphed and failed spectacularly in front of thousands of people, day after day, for years. It didn’t make it easier.
“Holstrom.” Tharion’s voice cut through the air, mercifully drawing him from the conversation. Ithan gave the male a nod and aimed for where the captain stood beside the river. Tharion murmured, “Smell anything?”
Ithan inhaled. Blood and rot and water and iron and—
Another sniff, taking him deeper, pulling back layers. Salt and water and seal. That was the selkie. Then— “There’s a human scent here. On her.” He pointed to the selkie left amid the leaves and bone-dry brush. “Two of them.”
Tharion said nothing, idly twirling a ribbon of water between his fingers. The mer were similar to the water sprites in that regard—able to summon water from thin air.