She looked down at his hand, gripping hers, for a second—for a lifetime. She asked, “What happened to your parents?”

He said, throat tight, “My mother never told me who my father is. And she … She was a low-ranking angel. She cleaned the villas of some of the more powerful angels, because they didn’t trust humans or other Vanir to do it.” His chest ached at the memory of his mother’s beautiful, gentle face. Her soft smile and dark, angular eyes. The lullabies he could still hear, more than two hundred years later.

“She worked day and night to keep me fed and never once complained, because she knew that if she did, she’d be out of a job and she had me to think about. When I was a foot soldier, and sending home every copper I made, she refused to spend it. Apparently, someone heard I was doing that, thought she had tons of money hidden in her apartment, and broke in one night. Killed her and took the money. All five hundred silver marks she’d amassed over her life, and the fifty gold marks I’d managed to send her after five years in service.”

“I am so sorry, Hunt.”

“None of the angels—the powerful, adored angels—that my mother worked for bothered to care that she’d been killed. No one investigated who did it, and no one granted me leave to mourn. She was nothing to them. But she was … she was everything to me.” His throat ached. “I made the Drop and joined Shahar’s cause soon after that. I battled on Mount Hermon that day for her—my mother. In her memory.” Shahar had taken those memories and made them into weapons.

Bryce’s fingers pressed his. “It sounds like she was a remarkable person.”

“She was.” He pulled his hand away at last.

But she still smiled at him, his chest tightening to the point of pain as she said, “All right. I’ll video chat my parents. Playing legionary with you can wait.”

Bryce spent most of the evening cleaning. Hunt helped her, offering to fly over to the nearest apothecary and get an insta-clean spell, but Bryce waved him off. Her mom was such a neat freak, she claimed, that she could tell the difference between magically cleaned bathrooms and hand-scrubbed ones. Even on video chat.

It’s that bleach smell that tells me it’s been done properly, Bryce, her daughter had imitated to Hunt in a flat, no-nonsense voice that made him just a little nervous.

Bryce had used his phone throughout, snapping photos of him cleaning, of Syrinx taking the toilet paper rolls from their container and shredding them on the carpet they’d just vacuumed, of herself with Hunt stooped over his toilet behind her, brushing down the inside.

By the time he’d snatched the phone out of her gloved hands, she’d again changed her contact name, this time to Bryce Is Cooler Than Me.

But despite the smile it brought to his face, Hunt kept hearing Micah’s voice, threats both spoken and implied. Find who is behind this. Get. The. Job. Done. Don’t make me reconsider our bargain. Before I take you off this case. Before I sell you back to Sandriel. Before I make you and Bryce Quinlan regret it.

Once he solved this case, it would be over, wouldn’t it? He’d still have ten kills left for Micah, which could easily take years to fulfill. He’d have to go back to the Comitium. To the 33rd.

He found himself looking at her while they cleaned. Taking out his phone and snapping some photos of her as well.

He knew too much. Had learned too much. About all of it. About what he might have had, without the halo and slave tattoos.

“I can open a bottle of wine, if you need some liquid courage,” Bryce was saying as they sat before her computer at the kitchen island, the video chat service dialing her parents. She’d bought a bag of pastries from the corner market on their way home—a stress-coping device, he assumed.

Hunt just scanned her face. This—calling her parents, sitting thigh-to-thigh with her … Fucking Hel.

He was on a one-way collision course. He couldn’t bring himself to stop it.

Before Hunt could open his mouth to suggest that this might be a mistake, a female voice said, “And why exactly would he need liquid courage, Bryce Adelaide Quinlan?”

56

A stunning woman in her mid-forties appeared on the screen, her sheet of black hair still untouched by gray, her freckled face just beginning to show the signs of a mortal life span.

From what Hunt could see, Ember Quinlan was seated on a worn green couch situated against oak-paneled walls, her long, jeans-clad legs folded beneath her.

Bryce rolled her eyes. “I’d say most people need liquid courage when dealing with you, Mom.” But she smiled. One of those broad smiles that did funny things to Hunt’s sense of balance.

Ember’s dark eyes shifted toward Hunt. “I think Bryce is confusing me with herself.”

Bryce waved off the comment. “Where’s Dad?”

“He had a long day at work—he’s making some coffee so he doesn’t fall asleep.”

Even through the video feed, Ember possessed a grounded sort of presence that commanded attention. She said, “You must be Athie.”

Before he could answer, a male eased onto the couch beside Ember.

Bryce beamed in a way Hunt hadn’t seen before. “Hey, Dad.”

Randall Silago held two coffees, one of which he handed to Ember as he grinned back at his daughter. Unlike his wife, the years or the war had left their mark on him: his black braided hair was streaked with silver, his brown skin marred with a few brutal scars. But his dark eyes were friendly as he sipped from his mug—a chipped white one that said Insert Cliché Dad Joke Here. “I’m still scared of that fancy coffee machine you bought us for Winter Solstice,” he said by way of greeting.

“I’ve shown you how to use it literally three times.”

Her mother chuckled, toying with a silver pendant around her neck. “He’s old-school.”

Hunt had looked up how much the built-in machine in this apartment cost—if Bryce had bought them anything remotely similar, she must have dumped a considerable portion of her paycheck on it. Money she did not have. Not with her debt to Jesiba.

He doubted her parents knew that, doubted they’d have accepted that machine if they’d known the money could have gone toward paying back her debts to the sorceress.

Randall’s eyes shifted to Hunt, the warmth cooling to something harder. The eyes of the fabled sharpshooter—the man who’d taught his daughter how to defend herself. “You must be Bryce’s sort-of roommate.” Hunt saw the man notice his tattoos—on his brow, on his wrist. Recognition flared across Randall’s face.

Yet he didn’t sneer. Didn’t cringe.

Bryce elbowed Hunt in the ribs, reminding him to actually speak. “I’m Hunt Athalar,” he said, glancing at Bryce. “Or Athie, as she and Lehabah call me.”

Randall slowly set down his coffee. Yeah, that had been recognition in the man’s face a moment ago. But Randall narrowed his eyes at his daughter. “You were going to mention this when, exactly?”

Bryce rootled through the pastry bag on the counter and pulled out a chocolate croissant. She bit in and said around it, “He’s not as cool as you think, Dad.”

Hunt snorted. “Thanks.”

Ember said nothing. Didn’t even move. But she watched every bite Bryce took.