House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1) by Sarah J. Maas

“No. There are three thousand of us in the 33rd alone.” He glanced at her sidelong, watching her monitor the rising floor numbers. “Maybe some guy that checks out your ass before he says hello isn’t someone worth knowing.”

Her brows lifted as the elevator stopped and the doors opened. “That is precisely the kind of person I’m looking for.” She stepped into the simple hallway, and he followed her—realizing as she paused that he knew where they were going, and she only faked it.

He turned left. Their footsteps echoed off the tan granite tile of the long corridor. The stone was cracked and chipped in spots—from dropped weapons, magical pissing contests, actual brawls—but still polished enough that he could see both their reflections.

Quinlan took in the hall, the names on each door. “Males only, or are you mixed?”

“Mixed,” he told her. “Though there are more males than females in the 33rd.”

“Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Someone whose ass you gawk at?”

He shook his head, trying to fight the ice in his veins as he stopped before his door, opened it, and let her inside. Trying to block out the image of Shahar plunging to the earth, Sandriel’s sword through her sternum, both angels’ white wings streaming blood. Both sisters screaming, faces nearly mirror images of each other. “I was born a bastard.” He shut the door behind them, watching her survey the small room. The bed was big enough to fit his wings, but there wasn’t space for much else beyond an armoire and dresser, a desk stacked with books and papers, and discarded weapons.

“So?”

“So my mother had no money, and no distinguished bloodline that might have made up for it. I don’t exactly have females lining up for me, despite this face of mine.” His laugh was bitter as he opened the cheap pine armoire and pulled out a large duffel. “I had someone once, someone who didn’t care about status, but it didn’t end well.” Each word singed his tongue.

Bryce wrapped her arms around herself, nails digging into the filmy silk of her shirt. She seemed to realize whom he’d alluded to. She glanced around, as if casting for things to say, and somehow settled on, “When did you make the Drop?”

“I was twenty-eight.”

“Why then?”

“My mother had just died.” Sorrow filled her eyes, and he couldn’t stand the look, couldn’t stand to open up the wound, so he added, “I was reeling afterward. So I got a public Anchor and made the Drop. But it didn’t make a difference. If I’d inherited the power of an Archangel or a dormouse, once the tattoos got inked on me five years later, it cut me off at the knees.”

He could hear her hand stroke his blanket. “You ever regret the angels’ rebellion?”

Hunt glanced over a shoulder to find her leaning against the bed. “No one’s ever asked me that.” No one dared. But she held his stare. Hunt admitted, “I don’t know what I think.”

He let his stare convey the rest. And I wouldn’t say a fucking word about it in this place.

She nodded. Then looked at the walls—no artwork, no posters. “Not one to decorate?”

He stuffed clothes into the duffel, remembering she had a washing machine in the apartment. “Micah can trade me whenever he wants. It’s asking for bad luck to put down roots like that.”

She rubbed her arms, even though the room was warm, almost stuffy. “If he’d died that night, what would have happened to you? To every Fallen and slave he owns?”

“Our deed of ownership passes on to whoever replaces him.” He hated every word out of his mouth. “If he doesn’t have anyone listed, the assets get divided among the other Archangels.”

“Who wouldn’t honor his bargain with you.”

“Definitely not.” Hunt started on the weapons stashed in his desk drawers.

He could feel her watching his every movement, as if counting each blade and gun he pulled out. She asked, “If you achieved your freedom, what would you do?”

Hunt checked the ammo for the guns he had on his desk, and she wandered over to watch. He tossed a few into his bag. She picked up a long knife as if it were a dirty sock. “I heard your lightning is unique among the angels—even the Archangels can’t produce it.”

He tucked in his wings. “Yeah?”

A shrug. “So why is Isaiah the Commander of the 33rd?”

He took the knife from her and set it in his bag. “Because I piss off too many people and don’t give a shit that I do.” It had been that way even before Mount Hermon. Yet Shahar had seen it as a strength. Made him her general. He’d tried and failed to live up to that honor.

Bryce gave him a conspirator’s smile. “We have something in common after all, Athalar.”

Fine. The angel wasn’t so bad. He had patched her up after the bombing with no male swaggering. And he had one Hel of a reason to want this case solved. And he pissed Ruhn off to no end.

As he’d finished packing, he’d gotten a call from Isaiah, who said that their request to see Briggs had been approved—but that it would take a few days to get Briggs cleaned up and brought over from Adrestia Prison. Bryce had chosen to ignore what, exactly, that implied about Briggs’s current state.

The only bright spot was that Isaiah informed Hunt that the Oracle had made room for him on her schedule first thing tomorrow.