Hunt had never known the tally—how many he’d killed that day. But Micah, who’d been on that battlefield, who’d watched while Shahar fell at her twin sister’s hand, had the list. They’d had to pay out commissions for all the legionaries. Hunt had been about to ask how they’d been able to determine which killing blows had been made by his blade and not someone else’s, when he’d seen the number.

Two thousand two hundred and seventeen.

It was impossible for him to have personally killed that many in one battle. Yes, his lightning had been unleashed; yes, he’d blasted apart entire units, but that many?

He’d gaped. You were Shahar’s general, Micah said. You commanded the 18th. So you will atone, Athalar, not only for the lives you took, but those your traitorous legion took as well. At Hunt’s silence, Micah had added, This is not some impossible task. Some of my missions will count for more than one life. Behave, obey, and you will be able to reach this number.

For four years now, he had behaved. He had obeyed. And tonight had put him at a grand total of eighty-fucking-two.

It was the best he could hope for. All he worked for. No other Archangel had ever offered him the chance. It was why he’d done everything Micah had ordered him to do tonight. Why every thought felt distant, his body pulled from him, his head full of a dull roaring.

Micah was an Archangel. A Governor appointed by the Asteri. He was a king among angels, and law unto himself, especially in Valbara—so far from the seven hills of the Eternal City. If he deemed someone a threat or in need of justice, then there would be no investigation, no trial.

Just his command. Usually to Hunt.

It would arrive in the form of a file in his barracks mailbox, the imperial crest on its front. No mention of his name. Just SPQM, and the seven stars surrounding the letters.

The file contained all he needed: names, dates, crimes, and a timeline for Hunt to do what he did best. Plus any requests from Micah regarding the method employed.

Tonight it had been simple enough—no guns. Hunt understood the unwritten words: make them suffer. So he had.

“There’s a beer with your name on it when you come out,” Viktoria said, her eyes meeting Hunt’s even with the helmet on. Nothing but a casual, cool invitation.

Hunt continued into the bathroom, the firstlights fluttering to life as he shouldered his way through the door and approached one of the shower stalls. He cranked the water to full heat before stalking back to the row of pedestal sinks.

In the mirror above one, the being who stared back was as bad as a Reaper. Worse.

Blood splattered the helmet, right over the painted silver skull’s face. It gleamed faintly on the intricate leather scales of his battle-suit, on his black gloves, on the twin swords peeking above his shoulders. Flecks of it even stained his gray wings.

Hunt peeled off the helmet and braced his hands on the sink.

In the harsh bathroom firstlights, his light brown skin was pallid under the black band of thorns across his brow. The tattoo, he’d learned to live with. But he shrank from the look in his dark eyes. Glazed. Empty. Like staring into Hel.

Orion, his mother had named him. Hunter. He doubted she would have done so, would have so lovingly called him Hunt instead, if she’d known what he’d become.

Hunt glanced to where his gloves had left red stains on the porcelain sink.

Tugging off the gloves with brutal efficiency, Hunt prowled to the shower stall, where the water had reached near-scalding temperatures. He removed his weapons, then his battle-suit, leaving more streaks of blood on the tiles.

Hunt stepped under the spray, and submitted himself to its relentless burning.

10

It was barely ten in the morning, and Tuesday was already fucked.

Keeping a smile pasted on her face, Bryce lingered by her ironwood desk in the showroom of the gallery while a Fae couple browsed.

The elegant plucking of violins trickled through the hidden speakers in the two-level, wood-paneled space, the opening movement of a symphony that she’d switched on as soon as the intercom had buzzed. Given the couple’s attire—a pleated tan skirt and white silk blouse for the female, a gray suit for the male—she’d doubted they’d appreciate the thumping bass of her morning workout mix.

But they’d been browsing the art for ten minutes now, which was enough time for her to politely inquire, “Are you here for anything in particular, or just to browse?”

The blond Fae male, older-looking for one of his kind, waved a dismissive hand, leading his companion toward the nearest display: a partial marble relief from the ruins of Morrah, salvaged from a wrecked temple. The piece was about the size of a coffee table, with a rearing hippocamp filling most of it. The half-horse, half-fish creatures had once dwelled in the cerulean waters of the Rhagan Sea in Pangera, until ancient wars had destroyed them.

“Browsing,” the male replied coldly, his hand coming to rest on his companion’s slender back as they studied the waves carved in strikingly precise detail.

Bryce summoned another smile. “Take your time. I’m at your disposal.”

The female nodded her thanks, but the male sneered his dismissal. His companion frowned deeply at him.

The silence in the small gallery turned palpable.

Bryce had gleaned from the moment they’d walked through the door that the male was here to impress the female, either by buying something outrageously expensive or pretending he could. Perhaps this was an arranged pairing, testing out the waters before committing to anything further.

Had Bryce been full-blooded Fae, had her father claimed her as his offspring, she might have been subjected to such things. Ruhn, especially with his Starborn status, would one day have to submit to an arranged marriage, when a young female deemed suitable to continue the precious royal bloodline came along.

Ruhn might sire a few children before then, but they wouldn’t be acknowledged as royalty unless their father chose that path. Unless they were worthy of it.

The Fae couple passed the mosaic from the courtyard of the once-great palace in Altium, then studied the intricate jade puzzle box that had belonged to a princess in a forgotten northern land.

Jesiba did most of the art acquisitions, which was why she was away so often, but Bryce herself had tracked down and purchased a good number of the pieces. And then resold them at a steep profit.

The couple had reached a set of fertility statues from Setmek when the front door buzzed.

Bryce glanced toward the clock on her desk. The afternoon client appointment wasn’t for another three hours. To have multiple browsers in the gallery was an oddity given the notoriously steep price tags of the art in here, but—maybe she’d get lucky and sell something today.

“Excuse me,” Bryce murmured, ducking around the massive desk and pulling up the outside camera feed on the computer. She’d barely clicked the icon when the buzzer rang again.

Bryce beheld who was standing on the sidewalk and froze.

Tuesday was indeed fucked.

No windows lined the sandstone facade of the slender two-story building a block off the Istros River. Only a bronze plaque to the right of the heavy iron door revealed to Hunt Athalar that it was a business of any sort.

Griffin Antiquities had been etched there in archaic, bold lettering, the words adorned with a set of glaring owl eyes beneath them, as if daring any shoppers to enter. An intercom with a matching bronze button lay beneath.