She hurtled past the marble behemoth that was the Fae Archives, the building covered in drooping veils of flowers that ran down its many columns. Roses, jasmine, wisteria—all in perpetual bloom, no matter the season.

She sprinted all the way to the sprawling white villa covered in pink roses, and to the wrought-iron gate around it guarded by four Fae warriors.

They stepped into her path as she skidded to a halt, the flagstone street slick with rain.

“Let me in,” she said through her teeth, panting.

They didn’t so much as blink. “Do you have an appointment with His Majesty?” one asked.

“Let me in,” she said again.

He’d known. Her father had known there were tests to assess what had killed Danika and had done nothing. Had deliberately stayed out of it.

She had to see him. Had to hear it from him. She didn’t care what time it was.

The polished black door was shut, but the lights were on. He was home. He had to be.

“Not without an appointment,” said the same guard.

Bryce took a step toward them and rebounded—hard. A wall of heat surrounded the compound, no doubt generated by the Fae males before her. One of the guards snickered. Her face grew hot, her eyes stinging.

“Go tell your king that Bryce Quinlan needs a word. Now.”

“Come back when you have an appointment, half-breed,” one of the sentries said.

Bryce smacked her hand against their shield. It didn’t so much as ripple. “Tell him—”

The guards stiffened as power, dark and mighty, pulsed from behind her. Lightning skittered over the cobblestones. The guards’ hands drifted to their swords.

Hunt said, voice like thunder, “The lady wants an audience with His Majesty.”

“His Majesty is unavailable.” The guard who spoke had clearly noted the halo at Hunt’s brow. The sneer that spread across his face was one of the most hideous things Bryce had ever seen. “Especially for Fallen scum and half-human skanks.”

Hunt took a step toward them. “Say that again.”

The guard’s sneer remained. “Once wasn’t enough?”

Hunt’s hand fisted at his side. He’d do it, she realized. He’d pummel these assholes into dust for her, fight his way inside the gates so she could have a chat with the king.

Down the block, Ruhn appeared, wreathed in shadow, his black hair plastered to his head. Flynn and Declan followed close behind him. “Stand down,” Ruhn ordered the guards. “Stand the fuck down.”

They did no such thing. “Even you, Prince, are not authorized to order that.”

Ruhn’s shadows swirled at his shoulders like a phantom pair of wings, but he said to Bryce, “There are other battles worth fighting with him. This isn’t one of them.”

Bryce stalked a few feet from the gate, even though the guards could likely hear every word. “He deliberately chose not to help with what happened to Danika.”

Hunt said, “Some might consider that to be interference with an imperial investigation.”

“Fuck off, Athalar,” Ruhn growled. He reached for Bryce’s arm, but she stepped back. He clenched his jaw. “You are considered a member of this court, you know. You were involved in a colossal mess. He decided the best thing for your safety was to let the case drop, not dig further.”

“As if he’s ever given two shits about my safety.”

“He gave enough of a shit about you to want me to be your live-in guard. But you wanted Athalar to play sexy roomie.”

“He wants to find the Horn for himself,” she snapped. “It has nothing to do with me.” She pointed to the house beyond the iron fence. “You go in there and tell that piece of shit that I won’t forget this. Ever. I doubt he’ll care, but you tell him.”

Ruhn’s shadows stilled, draping from his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Bryce. About Danika—”

“Do not,” she seethed, “ever say her name to me. Never say her name to me again.”

She could have sworn hurt that even his shadows couldn’t hide flashed across her brother’s face, but she turned, finding Hunt watching with crossed arms. “I’ll see you at the apartment,” she said to him, and didn’t bother to say more before launching back into a run.

It had been fucked up to not warn Hunt whom she was summoning. She’d admit it.

But not as fucked up as the Fae tests her father had declined to provide access to.

Bryce didn’t go home. Halfway there, she decided she’d head somewhere else. The White Raven was shut down, but her old favorite whiskey bar would do just fine.

Lethe was open and serving. Which was good, because her leg throbbed mercilessly and her feet were blistered from running in her stupid flats. She took them off the moment she hopped onto the leather stool at the bar, and sighed as her bare feet touched the cool brass footrest running the length of the dark wood counter.

Lethe hadn’t changed in the two years since she’d last set foot on the floor that lent itself to an optical illusion, painted with black, gray, and white cubes. The cherrywood pillars still rose like trees to form the carved, arched ceiling high above, looming over a bar made from fogged glass and black metal, all clean lines and square edges.

She’d messaged Juniper five minutes ago, inviting her for a drink. She still hadn’t heard back. So she’d watched the news on the screen above the bar, flashing to the muddy battlefields in Pangera, the husks of mech-suits littering them like broken toys, bodies both human and Vanir sprawled for miles, the crows already feasting.

Even the human busboy had stopped to look, his face tight as he beheld the carnage. A barked order from the bartender had kept him moving, but Bryce had seen the gleam in the young man’s brown eyes. The fury and determination.

“What the Hel,” she muttered, and knocked back a mouthful of the whiskey in front of her.

It tasted as acrid and vile as she remembered—burned all the way down. Precisely what she wanted. Bryce took another swig.

A bottle of some sort of purple tonic plunked onto the counter beside her tumbler. “For your leg,” Hunt said, sliding onto the stool beside hers. “Drink up.”

She eyed the glass vial. “You went to a medwitch?”

“There’s a clinic around the corner. I figured you weren’t leaving here anytime soon.”

Bryce sipped her whiskey. “You guessed right.”

He nudged the tonic closer. “Have it before you finish the rest.”

“No comment about breaking my No Drinking rule?”

He leaned on the bar, tucking in his wings. “It’s your rule—you can end it whenever you like.”

Whatever. She reached for the tonic, uncorking and knocking it back. She grimaced. “Tastes like grape soda.”

“I told her to make it sweet.”

She batted her eyelashes. “Because I’m so sweet, Athalar?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t drink it if it tasted like rubbing alcohol.”

She lifted her whiskey. “I beg to differ.”

Hunt signaled the bartender, ordered a water, and said to Bryce, “So, tonight went well.”

She chuckled, sipping the whiskey again. Gods, it tasted awful. Why had she ever guzzled this stuff down? “Superb.”