House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City, #2)

Not one flicker of lightning remained in Hunt’s body.

The Hind strode beside Rigelus, speaking softly as they walked past where Hunt was on his knees outside the doors. She didn’t so much as look at Ruhn. The prince only stared ahead.

Baxian was escorted over, bloodied and bruised from the fight with Pollux. Mordoc was recovering from his slit throat, hate simmering from him as he lay bleeding on the floor. Hunt gave the bloodhound a savage smile as a ribbon of Rigelus’s power hauled Hunt to his feet.

“A short stop before the dungeons, I think,” Rigelus announced, turning left—toward the shattered ruin along the hall. Toward the now-empty Gate.

Hunt was powerless to do anything but follow, Ruhn and Baxian with him. He’d been at the end of the hall when Bryce had made her spectacular run, teleporting as fast as the wind toward the black hole that had opened within the small Gate. No trace of the blackness or Bryce remained now.

Hunt could only pray that Bryce had reached Hel. That she’d locate Aidas and he’d protect her as they rallied Hel’s armies and brought them back through the Rift into Midgard. To save them.

Hunt doubted he’d be around to see it. Doubted Ruhn or Baxian would, either.

Rigelus halted before the Gate. “Get the angel on his knees.”

Bryce’s scent still lingered in the air of the empty space framed by the Gate. Hunt focused on that scent and that scent alone as Pollux shoved him to the floor before the Gate.

If this was it, he could die knowing Bryce had gotten away. She’d gone from one Hel to a literal one, but … she’d gotten away. Their last chance at salvation.

“Go ahead, Hammer,” Rigelus said, smiling at Hunt, cold death in his ageless eyes.

Hunt could feel Ruhn and Baxian watching in muted horror. Hunt bowed over his knees, waiting for the blow to his neck.

Bryce, Bryce, Bryce—

Pollux’s hands clamped onto either side of his face. Holding it upright, like he’d snap Hunt’s neck with his bare hands.

Pollux laughed softly.

Hunt knew why a moment later as Rigelus approached, a hand lifted and near-blinding with white light. “I don’t think I need one of the crones this time,” the Bright Hand said.

No. No. Anything but this.

Hunt thrashed, but Pollux held him firm, smile unfaltering.

Rigelus laid his glowing hand on Hunt’s brow and pain erupted through his skull, his muscles, his blood. As if the very marrow of his bones were being burned into mist.

The Asteri’s power slithered and spiderwebbed across Hunt’s brow, piercing into him with every spike of the halo’s thorns that Rigelus tattooed there.

Hunt screamed then. It echoed off the stones, off the Gate.

Beside him, Baxian started inhaling sharp, jagged breaths. Like the Helhound knew he was next.

The pain across Hunt’s brow became blinding, his vision splintering.

The halo kept spreading over his skull, worse than any gorsian shackle. His power writhed in its iron grip, no longer his to fully command. Just as his own life, his freedom, his future with Bryce … Gone.

Hunt screamed again, and as darkness swept in to claim him, he wondered if that soul-scream, not the halo, was what Rigelus wanted. If the Asteri believed the sound of his suffering might carry through the Gate and into Hel itself, where Bryce could hear him.

Then Hunt knew nothing at all.





78

Hel had grass. And mist.

Those were Bryce’s first two thoughts as she landed—or appeared. One moment she was falling sideways, and then her right shoulder collided with a wall of green that turned out to be the ground.

She panted, mind spinning so violently she could only lie amid the drifting, chill fog. Her fingers dug into the verdant grass. Blood coated her hands. Crusted beneath her nails.

She had to get up. Had to start moving before one of Hel’s creatures sniffed her out and ripped her to shreds. If those deathstalkers found her, they’d kill her in an instant.

The Starsword—

There. A foot beyond her head.

Bryce trembled as she eased onto her knees, bending to hold them tight.

Hunt … She could have sworn she heard his screams echoing in the mist as she fell.

She had to get up. Find a way to Aidas.

Yet she couldn’t move. To get up would be to walk away from her world, from Hunt and Ruhn, and whatever the Asteri were doing to them—

Get up, she told herself, gritting her teeth.

The mists parted ahead, peeling back to reveal a gentle turquoise river perhaps fifty feet from where she knelt, flowing right past the … lawn.

She was on someone’s clipped, immaculate lawn. And across the river, emerging from the mist …

A city. Ancient and beautiful—like something on a Pangeran postcard. Indistinct shapes meandered through the mist on the other side of the river—the demons of Hel.

Get up.

Bryce swallowed hard, as if she could drink down her shaking, and slid out a leg to rise. The Harpy’s blood still soaked her leggings, the fabric sticky against her skin.

Something icy and sharp pressed against her throat.

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.