Ruhn clenched his jaw. “The Governor pushed your buttons. So what?”

“He insulted our strength.” His father’s hair simmered with fire, as if the strands had gone molten. “He said we gave up the Horn in the first place, then let it be lost two years ago.”

“It was stolen from Luna’s Temple. We didn’t fucking lose it.” Ruhn barely knew anything about the object, hadn’t even cared when it went missing two years ago.

“We let a sacred artifact of our people be used as a cheap tourist attraction,” his father snapped. “And I want you to find it again.” So his father could rub it in Micah’s face.

Petty, brittle male. That’s all his father was.

“The Horn has no power,” Ruhn reminded him.

“It is a symbol—and symbols will always wield power of their own.” His father’s hair burned brighter.

Ruhn suppressed his urge to cringe, his body tensing with the memory of how the king’s burning hand had felt wrapped around his arm, sizzling through his flesh. No shadows had ever been able to hide him from it. “Find the Horn, Ruhn. If war comes to these shores, our people will need it in more ways than one.”

His father’s amber eyes blazed. There was more the male wasn’t telling him.

Ruhn could think of only one other thing to cause this much aggravation: Micah again suggesting that Ruhn replace his father as City Head of FiRo. Whispers had swirled for years, and Ruhn had no doubt the Archangel was smart enough to know how much it’d anger the Autumn King. With the Summit nearing, Micah knew pissing off the Fae King with a reference to his fading power was a good way to ensure the Fae Aux was up to snuff before it, regardless of any war.

Ruhn tucked that information aside. “Why don’t you look for the Horn?”

His father loosed a breath through his long, thin nose, and the fire in him banked to embers. The king nodded toward Ruhn’s hand, where the starlight had been. “I have been looking. For two years.” Ruhn blinked, but his father went on, “The Horn was originally the possession of Pelias, the first Starborn Prince. You may find that like calls to like—merely researching it could reveal things to you that were hidden from others.”

Ruhn hardly bothered to read anything these days beyond the news and the Aux reports. The prospect of poring over ancient tomes just in case something jumped out at him while a murderer ran loose … “We’ll get into a lot of trouble with the Governor if we take the Horn for ourselves.”

“Then keep it quiet, Prince.” His father opened his notebook again. Conversation over.

Yeah, this was nothing more than political ego-stroking. Micah had taunted his father, insulted his strength—and now his father would show him precisely where the Fae stood.

Ruhn ground his teeth. He needed a drink. A strong fucking drink.

His head roiled as he headed for the door, the pain from summoning the starlight eddying with every word thrown at him.

I told you to warn that girl to stay quiet.

Find the Horn.

Like calls to like.

An appropriate marriage.

Produce an heir.

You owe it to our bloodline.

Ruhn slammed the door behind him. Only when he’d gotten halfway down the hall did he laugh, a harsh, rasping sound. At least the asshole still didn’t know that he’d lied about what the Oracle had told him all those decades ago.

With every step out of his father’s villa, Ruhn could once more hear the Oracle’s unearthly whispering, reading the smoke while he’d trembled in her dim marble chamber:

The royal bloodline shall end with you, Prince.

15

Syrinx pawed at the window, his scrunched-up face smooshed against the glass. He’d been hissing incessantly for the past ten minutes, and Bryce, more than ready to settle into the plush cushions of the L-shaped couch and watch her favorite Tuesday night reality show, finally twisted to see what all the fuss was about.

Slightly bigger than a terrier, the chimera huffed and pawed at the floor-to-ceiling glass, the setting sun gilding his wiry golden coat. The long tail, tufted with dark fur at the end like a lion’s, waved back and forth. His folded little ears were flat to his round, fuzzy head, his wrinkles of fat and the longer hair at his neck—not quite a mane—were vibrating with his growling, and his too-big paws, which ended in birdlike talons, were now—

“Stop that! You’re scratching the glass!”

Syrinx looked over a rounded, muscled shoulder, his squished face more dog than anything, and narrowed his dark eyes. Bryce glared right back.

The rest of her day had been long and weird and exhausting, especially after she’d gotten a message from Juniper, saying Fury had alerted her about Briggs’s innocence and the new murder, and warning Bryce to be careful. She doubted either friend knew of her involvement in finding the murderer, or of the angel who’d been assigned to work with her, but it had stung—just a bit. That Fury hadn’t bothered to contact her personally. That even June had done it over messaging and not face-to-face.

Bryce had a feeling tomorrow would be just as draining—if not worse. So throwing in a battle of wills with a thirty-pound chimera wasn’t her definition of a much-needed unwinding.

“You just got a walk,” she reminded Syrinx. “And an extra helping of dinner.”

Syrinx gave a hmmph and scratched the window again.

“Bad!” she hissed. Half-heartedly, sure, but she tried to sound authoritative.

Where the little beast was concerned, dominance was a quality they both pretended she had.

Groaning, Bryce hauled herself from the nest of cushions and padded across wood and carpet to the window. On the street below, cars inched past, a few late commuters trudged home, and some dinner patrons strolled arm-in-arm to one of the fine restaurants along the river at the end of the block. Above them, the setting sun smeared the sky red and gold and pink, the palm trees and cypresses swayed in the balmy spring breeze, and … And that was a winged male sitting on the opposite roof. Staring right at her.

She knew those gray wings, and the dark, shoulder-length hair, and the cut of those broad shoulders.

Protection duty, Micah had said.

Bullshit. She had a strong feeling the Governor still didn’t trust her, alibi or no.

Bryce gave Hunt Athalar a dazzling smile and slashed the heavy curtains shut.

Syrinx yowled as he was caught in them, reversing his stout little body out of the folds. His tail lashed from side to side, and she braced her hands on her hips. “You were enjoying the sight?”

Syrinx showed all his pointy teeth as he let out another yowl, trotted to the couch, and threw himself onto the warmed cushions where she’d been sitting. The portrait of despair.

A moment later, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. Right as her show began.

She didn’t know the number, but she wasn’t at all surprised when she picked up, plopping down onto the cushions, and Hunt growled, “Open the curtains. I want to watch the show.”

She propped both bare feet on the table. “I didn’t know angels deigned to watch trash TV.”

“I’d rather watch the sunball game that’s on right now, but I’ll take what I can get.”

The idea of the Umbra Mortis watching a dating competition was laughable enough that Bryce hit pause on the live show. At least she could now speed through commercials. “What are you doing on that roof, Athalar?”