Bryce angled her sword higher, ready to fight until the end. Hunt gazed at her for a moment, an avenging angel in her own right—and then slammed his hand onto the brass plaque of the Dead Gate.
Bryce dared only a glance behind her as Hunt bellowed again. He was standing, but his hand …
White, blinding firstlight—or was it secondlight?—flowed from the Dead Gate up his arm. Up his shoulder. And on the other side of the archway, the stone began to go dark. As if he were draining it.
The two hounds of the Shepherd merged back together, anticipating the next strike. Hunt’s voice was a thunderclap as he said behind her, “Light it up, Bryce.”
The words bloomed in Bryce’s heart at the same moment Hunt shot a bolt of his power—the Dead Gate’s power—into her. It burned and roared and blinded, a writhing ball of energy that Bryce broke to her will and funneled into the Starsword.
Forks of lightning cracked from Hunt, from her, from the sword.
The Shepherd turned tail and fled.
Bryce ran after it.
Wings flapped behind her, and then she was in Hunt’s arms. He carried her high above the beast’s back, then plunged down, lightning streaming around them, a meteorite crashing—
They slammed into the creature, and Bryce drove the sword into the Shepherd’s nape. Into the skull beneath. Lightning and firstlight blasted through it, and the hound exploded into smoking smithereens.
Bryce and Hunt hit the ground panting and steaming, soaked with the Shepherd’s blood. But Hunt was up again in a moment, running, a hand on Bryce’s back as he hauled her with him. “The river,” he panted, lightning skittering across his teeth, his cheeks. His wings drooped like he was wholly exhausted. Like flying was beyond him.
Bryce didn’t waste breath to answer as they raced through the mist toward the Istros.
“Two more Vanir bodies this morning, Your Excellency,” Tharion said by way of greeting, bowing at the waist as he stood in his queen’s private study.
It was more biodome than study, really, full of plants and a deep, winding stream, studded with large pools. The River Queen swam among the lily pads, her black hair trailing like ink in the water behind her. Her day of meetings might require her to be inside the building, but she took all of them here, sitting in her element.
She turned toward Tharion, hair plastered down her ample, heavy breasts, her brown skin gleaming with water. “Tell me where.” Her voice was lovely, but subdued. Cold.
“One left hanging upside down in an olive grove north of the city—drained and shot the same way as the selkie—the other crucified on the tree next to him. Also shot, with a slit throat. They’d clearly been tortured. Two human scents were present. Seems like this happened yesterday.”
He’d gotten the report this morning over breakfast. Hadn’t bothered to go to the sites or ask Holstrom to come with him, not when the Aux had been the ones to get the call, and would be the ones to handle the bodies.
“And you still believe the rebel Pippa Spetsos is behind these killings.”
“The style is in line with what her Lightfall squad does to its victims. I think she’s on Emile Renast’s trail, and is torturing anyone who helped him on his way.”
“Is the boy here, then?”
“Considering the proximity of the latest site, I have good reason to believe he has arrived.” An otter looped and twirled past the windows, a message clenched in his fangs, neon-yellow vest glaringly bright in the cobalt blue.
“And Sofie Renast?” The River Queen toyed with a pink-and-gold lily that brushed against her soft stomach, running her elegant fingers over its petals. “Any sightings of her?”
“Not a ripple.” No need to mention Bryce and Athalar going to the Bone Quarter for answers. There was nothing to tell yet. He could only hope the two of them would emerge alive.
“The Hind is here, in Lunathion. Do you believe she’s also tracking Emile?”
“She’s only arrived today.” He’d gotten reports already that her wolves prowled the city, along with the Harpy. At least the Hawk, his spies said, had remained behind in Pangera, left to guard Ephraim’s roost, apparently. “Her whereabouts have been public for the last few days—she doesn’t have a human scent, and also wasn’t in the city to commit these murders. All signs point to Pippa Spetsos.”
The river-spirit plucked the lily and tucked it behind her ear. It glowed as if lit by a kernel of firstlight. “Find that boy, Tharion.”
He bowed his head. “What about Ophion Command? If they find out we have Emile …”
“Make sure they don’t find out.” Her eyes darkened, and storms threatened. Lightning lashed the surface high above. “We are loyal to the House of Many Waters first and foremost.”
“Why the boy?” he finally dared ask. “Why do you want him so badly?”
“You question me?” Only the Ocean Queen, Lady of Waters, Daughter of Ogenas, had that right. Or the Asteri. Tharion bowed.
Lightning illuminated the surface again, and Tharion’s brows lowered. That wasn’t his queen’s power. And since the forecast hadn’t called for storms …
Tharion bowed again. “I apologize for the impertinence. Your will is mine,” he said, the familiar words falling from his lips. “I’ll update you when I’ve apprehended the boy.”
He made to leave, risking doing so without dismissal, and had nearly made it to the archway before the River Queen said, “Did you enjoy your punishment last night?”
He closed his eyes for a moment before he turned to face her.
She’d lowered herself into the stream again, no more than a dark, beautiful head among the lily pads. Like one of her sobeks, waiting to make a meal of the unworthy dead.
Tharion said, “It was a wise and fitting punishment for my ignorance and transgression.”
Her lips curled upward, revealing slightly pointed white teeth. “It is diverting to see you tug at the leash, Tharion.”
He swallowed his retort, his rage, his grief, and inclined his head.
More lightning. He had to go. Knew better than to reveal his impatience, though. “I have only your daughter’s best interests in my heart.”
Again, that ancient, cruel smile that informed him she’d seen too many males—some far smarter than he—come and go. “I suppose we shall see.” With that, she dipped beneath the water, vanishing under the lily pads and among the reeds.
Hunt could barely stand.
The firstlight had flayed him, leaving a smoking ruin inside his body, his mind. But it had worked. He’d taken the power and converted it into his own. Whatever the fuck that meant. Apollion had known—or guessed enough to be right. And Bryce … the sword …
She’d been a conduit to his power. Fucking Hel.
They staggered through the mists, the obelisks. Screeching and hissing rose around them. Reapers. Would anyplace in Midgard be safe now, even after death? He sure as fuck didn’t want his soul in the Bone Quarter.
The bone gates appeared overhead, carved from the ribs of some ancient leviathan, and beyond them, the steps to the river. Hunt’s knees nearly buckled as he spied a familiar wave skimmer and the mer male atop it, beckoning frantically as he pivoted the wave skimmer toward Lunathion proper.