Ruhn Danaan, Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae. Son of the Autumn King and the current possessor of the Starsword, fabled dark blade of the ancient Starborn Fae. Proof of the prince’s Chosen One status among the Fae—whatever the Hel that meant.

That sword was currently strapped across Ruhn’s back, its black hilt devouring the glaring firstlights. Isaiah had once heard someone say the sword was made from iridium mined from a meteorite, forged in another world—before the Fae had come through the Northern Rift.

Danaan’s blue eyes simmered like the heart of a flame—though Ruhn himself bore no such magic. Fire magic was common among the Valbaran Fae, wielded by the Autumn King himself. But rumor claimed Ruhn’s magic was more like those of his kin who ruled the sacred Fae isle of Avallen across the sea: power to summon shadows or mist that could not only veil the physical world, but the mind as well. Perhaps even telepathy.

Ruhn glanced at the vomit, scenting the female who’d just left. “Where the fuck is she?”

Hunt went still at the cold command in the prince’s voice.

“Bryce Quinlan has been released,” Isaiah said. “We sent her upstairs a few minutes ago.”

Ruhn had to have taken a side entrance if he’d missed her, and they hadn’t been warned by the front desk of his arrival. Perhaps he’d used that magic of his to worm through the shadows.

The prince turned toward the doorway, but Hunt said, “What’s it to you?”

Ruhn bristled. “She’s my cousin, asshole. We take care of our own.”

A distant cousin, since the Autumn King had no siblings, but apparently the prince knew Bryce well enough to intervene.

Hunt threw Ruhn a grin. “Where were you tonight?”

“Fuck you, Athalar.” Ruhn bared his teeth. “I suppose you heard that Danika and I got into it over Briggs at the Head meeting. What a lead. Good job.” Each word came out more clipped than the last. “If I wanted to kill Danika, I wouldn’t summon a fucking demon to do it. Where the fuck is Briggs? I want to talk to him.”

“He’s incoming.” Hunt was still smiling. That lightning still danced at his knuckles. “And you don’t get the first shot at him.” Then he added, “Daddy’s clout and cash only get you so far, Prince.”

It made no difference that Ruhn headed up the Fae division of the Aux, and was as well trained as any of their elite fighters. Or that the sword on his back wasn’t merely decorative.

It didn’t matter to Hunt. Not where royals and rigid hierarchies were concerned.

Ruhn said, “Keep talking, Athalar. Let’s see where it gets you.”

Hunt smirked. “I’m shaking.”

Isaiah cleared his throat. Burning Solas, the last thing he needed tonight was a brawl between one of his triarii and a prince of the Fae. He said to Ruhn, “Can you tell us if Miss Quinlan’s behavior before the murder tonight was unusual or—”

“The Raven’s owner told me she was drunk and had snorted a pile of lightseeker,” Ruhn snapped. “But you’ll find Bryce with that kind of shit in her system at least one night a week.”

“Why does she do it at all?” Isaiah asked.

Ruhn crossed his arms. “She does what she wants. She always has.” There was enough bitterness there to suggest history—bad history.

Hunt drawled, “Just how close are you two?”

“If you’re asking whether I’m fucking her,” Ruhn seethed, “the answer, asshole, is no. She’s family.”

“Distant family,” Hunt pointed out. “I heard the Fae like to keep their bloodline undiluted.”

Ruhn held his stare. And as Hunt smiled again, ether filled the room, the promise of a storm skittering over Isaiah’s skin.

Wondering if he’d be dumb enough to get between them when Ruhn attempted to bash in Hunt’s teeth and Hunt turned the prince into a pile of smoldering bones, Isaiah said quickly, “We’re just trying to do our job, Prince.”

“If you assholes had kept an eye on Briggs like you were supposed to, maybe this wouldn’t have happened at all.”

Hunt’s gray wings flared slightly—a malakh’s usual stance when preparing for a physical fight. And those dark eyes … They were the eyes of the feared warrior, the Fallen angel. The one who had smashed apart the battlefields he’d been ordered to fight on. The one who killed on an Archangel’s whim, and did it so well they called him the Shadow of Death.

“Careful,” Hunt said.

“Stay the fuck away from Bryce,” Ruhn snarled before striding back through the door, presumably after his cousin. At least Bryce would have an escort.

Hunt flipped off the empty doorway. After a moment, he murmured, “The tracking device in the water Quinlan drank when she got here. What’s the time frame on it?”

“Three days,” Isaiah replied.

Hunt studied the knife sheathed at his thigh. “Danika Fendyr was one of the strongest Vanir in the city, even without making the Drop. She begged like a human by the end.”

Sabine would never recover from the shame.

“I don’t know of a demon that kills like that,” Hunt mused. “Or disappears that easily. I couldn’t find a trace. It’s like it vanished back to Hel.”

Isaiah said, “If Briggs is behind it, we’ll learn what the demon is soon enough.”

If Briggs talked at all. He certainly hadn’t when he’d been busted in his bomb lab, despite the best efforts of the 33rd’s interrogators and the Aux.

Isaiah added, “I’ll have every available patrol quietly looking out for other young packs in the Auxiliary. If it winds up not being related to Briggs, then it could be the start of a pattern.”

Hunt asked darkly, “If we find the demon?”

Isaiah shrugged. “Then make sure it’s not a problem anymore, Hunt.”

Hunt’s eyes sharpened into lethal focus. “And Bryce Quinlan—after the three days are up?”

Isaiah frowned at the table, the crumpled chair. “If she’s smart, she’ll lie low and not attract the attention of any other powerful immortals for the rest of her life.”

 

 

7

The black steps ringing the foggy shore of the Bone Quarter bit into Bryce’s knees as she knelt before the towering ivory gates.

The Istros spread like a gray mirror behind her, silent in the predawn light.

As quiet and still as she had gone, hollowed out and drifting.

Mist curled around her, veiling all but the obsidian steps she knelt on and the carved bone gates looming overhead. The rotting black boat at her back was her only companion, its moldy, ancient rope draped over the steps in lieu of a mooring. She’d paid the fee—the boat would linger here until she was done. Until she had said what she needed to say.

The living realm remained a world away, the spires and skyscrapers of the city hidden by that swirling mist, its car horns and array of voices rendered mute. She’d left behind any mortal possessions. They would have no value here, among the Reapers and the dead.

She’d been glad to leave them—especially her phone, so full of anger and hatred.

Ithan’s latest audiomail had come only an hour ago, stirring her from the unsleeping stupor in which she’d spent the past six nights, staring at the dark ceiling of the hotel room she was sharing with her mother. Ignoring every call and message.