“Sure.”

Fury stalked for the door, but paused on the threshold. “It’ll get better, Bryce. I know the past two years have been shit, but it will get better. I’ve been there, and I promise you it does.”

“Okay.” Bryce added, because real concern shone on Fury’s normally cold face, “Thanks.”

Fury had the phone to her ear before she’d shut the door. “Yeah, I’m on my way,” she said. “Well, why don’t you shut the fuck up and let me drive so I can get there on time, dickbag?”

Through the peephole, Bryce watched her get onto the elevator. Then crossed the room and watched from the window as Fury climbed into a fancy black sports car, gunned the engine, and roared off into the streets.

Bryce peered at Syrinx. The chimera wagged his little lion’s tail.

Hunt had been given away. To the monster he hated and feared above all others.

“I am over it,” she said to Syrinx.

She looked toward the couch, and could nearly see Hunt sitting there, that sunball cap on backward, watching a game on TV. Could nearly see his smile as he looked over his shoulder at her.

That roaring fire in her veins halted—and redirected. She wouldn’t lose another friend.

Especially not Hunt. Never Hunt.

No matter what he had done, what and who he’d chosen, even if this was the last she would ever see of him … she wouldn’t let this happen. He could go to Hel afterward, but she would do this. For him.

Syrinx whined, pacing in a circle, claws clicking on the wood floor.

“I promised Fury not to do anything stupid,” Bryce said, her eyes on Syrinx’s branded-out tattoo. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do something smart.”

71

Hunt had a night to puke out his guts.

One night in that cell, likely the last bit of security he’d have for the rest of his existence.

He knew what would happen after the Summit. When Sandriel took him back to her castle in the misty, mountainous wilds of northwestern Pangera. To the gray-stoned city in its heart.

He’d lived it for more than fifty years, after all.

She’d left the photo feed up on the hallway TV screen, so he could see Bryce over and over and over. See the way Bryce had looked at him by the end, like he wasn’t a complete waste of life.

It wasn’t just to torture him with what he’d lost.

It was a reminder. Of who would be targeted if he disobeyed. If he resisted. If he fought back.

By dawn, he’d stopped puking. Had washed his face in the small sink. A change of clothes had arrived for him. His usual black armor. No helmet.

His back itched incessantly as he dressed, the cloth scraping against the wings that were taking form. Soon they’d be fully regenerated. A week of careful physical therapy after that and he’d be in the skies.

If Sandriel ever let him out of her dungeons.

She’d lost him once, to pay off her debts. He had few illusions that she’d allow it to happen again. Not until she found a way to break him for how he’d targeted her forces on Mount Hermon. How he and Shahar had come so close to destroying her completely.

It wasn’t until nearly sunset that they came for him. As if Sandriel wanted him stewing all day.

Hunt let them shackle him again with the gorsian stones. He knew what the stones would do if he so much as moved wrong. Disintegration of blood and bone, his brain turned into soup before it leaked out his nose.

The armed guard, ten deep, led him from the cell and into the elevator. Where Pollux Antonius, the golden-haired commander of Sandriel’s triarii, waited, a smile on his tan face.

Hunt knew that dead, cruel smile well. Had tried his best to forget it.

“Miss me, Athalar?” Pollux asked, his clear voice belying the monster lurking within. The Hammer could smash through battlefields and delighted in every second of carnage. Of fear and pain. Most Vanir never walked away. No humans ever had.

But Hunt didn’t let his rage, his hatred for that smirking, handsome visage so much as flicker across his face. A glimmer of annoyance flashed in Pollux’s cobalt eyes, his white wings shifting.

Sandriel waited in the Comitium lobby, the last of the sunlight shining in her curling hair.

The lobby. Not the landing pad levels above. So he might see—

Might see—

Justinian still hung from the crucifix. Rotting away.

“We thought you might want to say goodbye,” Pollux purred in his ear as they crossed the lobby. “The wraith, of course, is at the bottom of the sea, but I’m sure she knows you’ll miss her.”

Hunt let the male’s words flow through him, out of him. They would only be the start. Both from the Malleus and from Sandriel herself.

The Archangel smiled at Hunt as they approached, the cruelty on her face making Pollux’s smirk look downright pleasant. But she said nothing as she turned on her heel toward the lobby doors.

An armed transport van idled outside, back doors flung wide. Waiting for him, since he sure as fuck couldn’t fly. From the mocking gleam in Pollux’s eyes, Hunt had a feeling he knew who would be accompanying him.

Angels from the Comitium’s five buildings filled the lobby.

He noted Micah’s absence—coward. The bastard probably didn’t want to sully himself by witnessing the horror he’d inflicted. But Isaiah stood near the heart of the gathered crowd, his expression grim. Naomi gave Hunt a grave nod.

It was all she dared, the only farewell they could make.

The angels silently watched Sandriel. Pollux. Him. They hadn’t come to taunt, to witness his despair and humiliation. They, too, had come to say goodbye.

Every step toward the glass doors was a lifetime, was impossible. Every step was abhorrent.

He had done this, brought this upon himself and his companions, and he would pay for it over and over and—

“Wait!” The female voice rang out from across the lobby.

Hunt froze. Everyone froze.

“Wait!”

No. No, she couldn’t be here. He couldn’t bear for her to see him like this, knees wobbling and a breath away from puking again. Because Pollux strode beside him, and Sandriel prowled in front of him, and they would destroy her—

But there was Bryce. Running toward them. Toward him.

Fear and pain tightened her face, but her wide eyes were trained on him as she shouted again, to Sandriel, to the entire lobby full of angels, “Wait!”

She was breathless as the crowd parted. Sandriel halted, Pollux and the guards instantly on alert, forcing Hunt to pause with them, too.

Bryce skidded to a stop before the Archangel. “Please,” she panted, bracing her hands on her knees, her ponytail drooping over a shoulder as she tried to catch her breath. No sign of that limp. “Please, wait.”

Sandriel surveyed her like she would a gnat buzzing about her head. “Yes, Bryce Quinlan?”

Bryce straightened, still panting. Looked at Hunt for a long moment, for eternity, before she said to the Archangel of northwestern Pangera, “Please don’t take him.”

Hunt could barely stand to hear the plea in her voice. Pollux let out a soft, hateful laugh.

Sandriel was not amused. “He has been gifted to me. The papers were signed yesterday.”

Bryce pulled something from her pocket, causing the guards around them to reach for their weapons. Pollux’s sword was instantly in his hand, angled toward her with lethal efficiency.