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

“You think we’ll wind up back there?” Isaiah went on, face distant. “On those battlefields?”

Hunt knew which ones he meant, though they’d fought on many. Sandriel had sent both him and Isaiah to slaughter human rebels decades ago, when Ophion had initially formed.

“I hope not,” Hunt said, blocking out the images of those muddy massacres: the mech-suits smoldering with their pilots bleeding out inside them; heaps of broken wings piled high to the skies; some shifters going feral and feasting on the carrion alongside the crows.

He looked over at Isaiah. What would his friend say if he knew about Tharion? Isaiah’s words from their last argument in Shahar’s war tent still rang in his ears. This is folly, Athalar! We fly into slaughter. We have no allies, no route of retreat—you two are going to kill us all!

Hunt had ordered his friend out. Had curled up alongside Shahar, who’d listened to their argument from her bed behind the curtain of the tent. She’d promised him that Isaiah was wrong, that he was merely afraid, and Hunt had believed her. Because he was also afraid, he realized later. He’d believed her, and they’d fucked like animals, and a few hours after dawn, she was dead.

Hunt shook the memories of the past away and focused on the fight in front of him. The female ducked and slammed her fist into the male’s gut. He went down like a sack of flour, and Hunt chuckled, memories and dread shaking loose. “A pleasant surprise,” he said, turning his attention to the other soldiers paired off throughout the space. Sweat gleamed on bare skin, wings white and black and brown and gray rustled, and blood shone on more than a few faces.

Naomi was in the skies training a unit in dive-bombing maneuvers. It was an effort not to glance to the far ring, where Pollux and Baxian oversaw a unit practicing their shooting. The latter was currently in his large canine form, his coat a slick black.

It felt wrong to have those two pieces of shit here, instead of Vik and Justinian.

So wrong that he did look at them after all. Sized up the Helhound’s animal form. He’d seen Baxian rip limbs from opponents with those jaws, and move as fast on land as he did in his malakh form. As if sensing his attention, Baxian turned his head. His dark eyes gleamed.

Hunt bristled at the blatant challenge in Baxian’s gaze. It didn’t lessen when Baxian shifted in a flash of light, a few angels nearby startling at the return of his humanoid form.

Isaiah murmured, “Relax,” as Baxian said something to Pollux before stalking for them.

Baxian stood nearly as tall as Hunt, and despite the sweltering heat, he still wore head-to-toe black that matched his wings and his Helhound pelt. “I thought you were doing something far more interesting here in Valbara, Athalar. I’m surprised you haven’t dropped dead from boredom.”

Isaiah took that as a cue to check on the male who’d fallen, winking at Hunt as he left.

Traitor.

“Some of us crave a normal life, you know,” Hunt said to Baxian.

Baxian snickered. “All those battles, all that glory you won for yourself, all that lightning in your veins … and you simply want a nine-to-five job?” He tapped the scar on his neck. “The male who gave me this would be horrified.”

“The male who gave you that,” Hunt said through his teeth, “always wanted peace.”

“Didn’t seem like it when your lightning flayed me.”

“You handed over that rebel family to Sandriel without a second thought. I’d say you had it coming.”

Baxian laughed, low and lifeless. The hot, dry breeze rustled his black wings. “You were always a literal sort of bastard. Couldn’t read between the lines.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Hunt’s power flared at his fingertips.

Baxian shrugged. “I might not have been a slave as you are—were.” A nod toward his clear brow. “But I had as little choice in serving Sandriel as you did. Only I didn’t make my displeasure known.”

“Bullshit. You served her gladly. You don’t get to rewrite your history now that you’re here.”

Baxian’s wings rustled. “You never asked me why I was in her triarii, you know. Not once, in all those decades. You’re like that with everyone, Athalar. Surface-level.”

“Fuck off. Go back to your work.”

“This is my work. The Governor just messaged me and told me to team up with you.”

Hunt’s stomach turned. Did Celestina somehow know about Tharion asking for help finding that thunderbird kid? What better way to monitor him than to shackle him to the Helhound? “Hel no,” he said.

Baxian’s mouth curled upward as he nodded toward Pollux. “I’ve been stuck with that prick for a hundred years. It’s someone else’s turn to deal with him.” He pointed to Naomi.

Was it selfish to be glad he didn’t have to deal with the Hammer? “Why not tell us during the meeting earlier?”

“I think she’s been watching us this morning.” Baxian inclined his head to the cameras. “Likely didn’t want to alter our behavior before deciding who to pair up.”

“To what end?”

As if in answer, Hunt’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his shorts to find a message from Celestina.

As Isaiah will be escorting me around the city to meet its various leaders, I am relying on you and Naomi to help our two new arrivals adjust. I’d like you to partner with Baxian. Show him the ropes. Not just the ins and outs of the 33rd, but also how this city operates. Ease him into life in Valbara.

Hunt considered, even as he inwardly groaned. He was acutely aware of those cameras—the Archangel might be observing his every expression. “She put Naomi in charge of helping Pollux adjust?”

Across the ring, Isaiah was now checking his phone, frowning deeply. He glanced to Hunt, face lit with alarm. Not at the honor of escorting the Governor, Hunt knew.

Hunt turned back to Baxian, who’d no doubt gleaned that Hunt had all the orders he needed. “There’s no way Pollux will allow anyone to show him the ropes.”

Baxian shrugged. “Let Pollux dig his own grave here. He’s too pissed about being separated from the Hind to understand his new reality.”

“I didn’t realize the Hammer was capable of caring for anyone like that.”

“He isn’t. He just likes to have control over his … belongings.”

“The Hind belongs to no one.” Hunt hadn’t known Lidia Cervos well—their time had only briefly overlapped when he’d served Sandriel, and the Hind had spent most of it off on missions for the Asteri. Rented out like some sort of field-worker to do their spy-hunting and rebel-breaking. Whenever Lidia had been at Sandriel’s castle, she’d either been in secret meetings with the Archangel, or fucking Pollux in whatever room they felt like using. Thank the gods the Hind hadn’t come here. Or the Harpy.

But if Emile Renast was heading for this city … Hunt asked, “The Hind’s really not coming to Lunathion?”

“No. Pollux got a call from her this morning. He’s been moody ever since.”

“Mordoc finally making his move?” The head of the Hind’s dreadwolves was as formidable as his mistress.