40

It took Viktoria two days to find anything unusual on the city cameras and the power grid. But when she did, she didn’t call Hunt. No, she sent a messenger.

“Vik told me to get your ass to her office—the one at the lab,” Isaiah said by way of greeting as he landed on the roof of the gallery.

Leaning against the doorway that led downstairs, Hunt sized up his commander. Isaiah’s usual glow had dimmed, and shadows lay beneath his eyes. “It’s that bad with Sandriel there?”

Isaiah folded in his wings. Tightly. “Micah’s keeping her in check, but I was up all night dealing with petrified people.”

“Soldiers?”

“Soldiers, staff, employees, nearby residents … She’s rattled them.” Isaiah shook his head. “She’s keeping the timing of Pollux’s arrival quiet, too, to put us all on edge. She knows what kind of fear he drags up.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and that piece of shit will stay in Pangera.”

“We’re never that lucky, are we?”

“No. We’re not.” Hunt let out a bitter laugh. “The Summit’s still a month away.” A month of enduring Sandriel’s presence. “I … If you need anything from me, let me know.”

Isaiah blinked, surveying Hunt from head to boot tip. It shouldn’t have shamed him, that surprise on the commander’s face at his offer. Isaiah’s gaze shifted to the tiled roof beneath their matching boots, as if contemplating what or who might be responsible for his turn toward the altruistic. But Isaiah just asked, “Do you think Roga really turns her exes and enemies into animals?”

Having observed the creatures in the small tanks throughout the library, Hunt could only say, “I hope not.” Especially for the sake of the assistant who had been pretending she wasn’t falling asleep at her desk when he’d called to check in twenty minutes ago.

Since Declan had dropped the bomb about Sabine, she’d been broody. Hunt had advised her to be cautious about going after the future Prime, and she’d seemed inclined to wait for Viktoria to find any hint of the demon’s patterns—any proof that Sabine was indeed using the power of the ley lines to summon it, since her own power levels weren’t strong enough. Most shifters’ powers weren’t, though Danika had been an exception. Another reason for her mother’s jealousy—and motive.

They’d heard nothing from Ruhn, only a message yesterday about doing more research on the Horn. But if Vik had found something … Hunt asked, “Vik can’t come here with the news?”

“She wanted to show you in person. And I doubt Jesiba will be pleased if Vik comes here.”

“Considerate of you.”

Isaiah shrugged. “Jesiba is assisting us—we need her resources. It’d be stupid to push her limits. I have no interest in seeing any of you turned into pigs if we step on her toes too much.”

And there it was. The meaningful, too-long glance.

Hunt held up his hands with a grin. “No need to worry on my front.”

“Micah will come down on you like a hammer if you jeopardize this.”

“Bryce already told Micah she wasn’t interested.”

“He won’t forget that anytime soon.” Fuck, Hunt certainly knew that. The kill Micah had ordered last week as punishment for Hunt and Bryce embarrassing him in the Comitium lobby … It had lingered. “But I don’t mean that. I meant if we don’t find out who’s behind this, if it turns out you’re wrong about Sabine—not only will your reduced sentence be off the table, but Micah will find you responsible.”

“Of course he will.” Hunt’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket.

He choked. Not just at the message from Bryce: The gallery roof isn’t a pigeon roost, you know, but what she’d changed her contact name to, presumably when he’d gone to the bathroom or showered or just left his phone on the coffee table: Bryce Rocks My Socks.

And there, beneath the ridiculous name, she’d added a photo to her contact: the one she’d snapped of herself in the phone store, grinning from ear to ear.

Hunt suppressed a growl of irritation and typed back, Shouldn’t you be working?

Bryce Rocks My Socks wrote back a second later, How can I work when you two are thumping around up there?

He wrote back, How’d you get my password? She hadn’t needed it to activate the camera feature, but to have gotten into his contacts, she would have needed the seven-digit combination.

I paid attention. She added a second later, And might have observed you typing it in a few times while you were watching some dumb sunball game.

Hunt rolled his eyes and pocketed his phone without replying. Well, at least she was coming out of that quiet cloud she’d been in for days.

He found Isaiah watching him carefully. “There are worse fates than death, you know.”

Hunt looked toward the Comitium, the female Archangel lurking in it. “I know.”

Bryce frowned out the gallery door. “The forecast didn’t call for rain.” She scowled at the sky. “Someone must be throwing a tantrum.”

“It’s illegal to interfere with the weather,” Hunt recited from beside her, thumbing a message into his phone. He hadn’t changed the new contact name she’d given herself, Bryce had noticed. Or erased that absurd photo she’d added to her contact listing.

She silently mimicked his words, then said, “I don’t have an umbrella.”

“It’s not a far flight to the lab.”

“It’d be easier to call a car.”

“At this hour? In the rain?” He sent off his message and pocketed his phone. “It’ll take you an hour just to cross Central Avenue.”

The rain swept through the city in sheets. “I could get electrocuted up there.”

Hunt’s eyes glittered as he offered her a hand. “Good thing I can keep you safe.”

With all that lightning in his veins, she supposed it was true.

Bryce sighed and frowned at her dress, the black suede heels that would surely be ruined. “I’m not in flying-appropriate attire—”

The word ended on a yelp as Hunt hauled her into the sky.

She clung to him, hissing like a cat. “We have to go back before closing for Syrinx.”

Hunt soared over the congested, rain-battered streets as Vanir and humans ducked into doorways and under awnings to escape the weather. The only ones on the streets were those with umbrellas or magical shields up. Bryce buried her face against his chest, as if it’d shield her from the rain—and the terrible drop. What it amounted to was a face full of his scent and the warmth of his body against her cheek.

“Slow down,” she ordered, fingers digging into his shoulders and neck.

“Don’t be a baby,” he crooned in her ear, the richness of his voice skittering over every bone of her body. “Look around, Quinlan. Enjoy the view.” He added, “I like the city in the rain.”

When she kept her head ducked against his chest, he gave her a squeeze. “Come on,” he teased over the honking horns and splash of tires through puddles. He added, voice nearly a purr, “I’ll buy you a milkshake if you do.”

Her toes curled in her shoes at the low, coaxing voice.