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

Hunt ground his teeth. Had he been this out of touch with reality when he’d followed Shahar? Had it been this level of fanaticism that prompted him to lead the angels of the 18th to Mount Hermon? In those last days, would he have even listened to anyone if they’d advised against it?

A hazy memory surfaced, of Isaiah doing just that, screaming in Hunt’s war tent. Fuck.

Briggs asked, “Did a lot of Vanir die in the bombing?”

Disgust curdled Bryce’s face. “No,” she said, standing from her chair. “Not a single one.” She spoke with the imperiousness of a queen. Hunt could only rise with her.

Briggs tsked. “Too bad.”

Hunt’s fingers balled into fists. He’d been so wildly in love with Shahar, with the cause—had he been no better than this man?

Bryce said tightly, “Thank you for answering our questions.” Without waiting for Briggs to reply, she hurried for the door. Hunt kept a step behind her, even with Briggs anchored to the table.

That she’d ended the meeting so quickly showed Hunt that Bryce shared his opinion: Briggs truly hadn’t killed Danika.

He’d nearly reached the open doorway when Briggs said to him, “You’re one of the Fallen, huh?” Hunt paused. Briggs smiled. “Tons of respect for you, man.” He surveyed Hunt from head to toe. “What part of the 18th did you serve in?”

Hunt said nothing. But Briggs’s blue eyes shone. “We’ll bring the bastards down someday, brother.”

Hunt glanced toward Bryce, already halfway down the hallway, her steps swift. Like she couldn’t stand to breathe the same air as the man chained to the table, like she had to get out of this awful place. Hunt himself had been here, interrogated people, more often than he cared to remember.

And the kill he’d made last night … It had lingered. Ticked off another life-debt, but it had lingered.

Briggs was still staring at him, waiting for Hunt to speak. The agreement that Hunt would have voiced weeks ago now dissolved on his tongue.

No, he’d been no better than this man.

He didn’t know where that put him.

“So Briggs and his followers are off the list,” Bryce said, folding her feet beneath her on her living room couch. Syrinx was already snoring beside her. “Unless you think he was lying?”

Hunt, seated at the other end of the sectional, frowned at the sunball game just starting on TV. “He was telling the truth. I’ve dealt with enough … prisoners to sense when someone’s lying.”

The words were clipped. He’d been on edge since they’d left the Comitium through the same unmarked street door they’d used to enter. No chance of running into Sandriel that way.

Hunt pointed to the papers Bryce had brought from the gallery, noting some of Danika’s movements and the list of names she’d compiled. “Remind me who’s the next suspect on your list?”

Bryce didn’t answer as she observed his profile, the light of the screen bouncing off his cheekbones, deepening the shadow beneath his strong jaw.

He truly was pretty. And really seemed to be in a piss-poor mood. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Says the guy who’s grinding his teeth so hard I can hear them.”

Hunt cut her a glare and spread a muscled arm along the back of the couch. He’d changed when they’d returned thirty minutes ago, having grabbed a quick bite at a noodles-and-dumplings food cart just down the block, and now wore a soft gray T-shirt, black sweats, and a white sunball cap turned backward.

It was the hat that had proven the most confusing—so ordinary and … guy-ish, for lack of a better word, that she’d been stealing glances at him for the past fifteen minutes. Stray locks of his dark hair curled around the edges, the adjustable band nearly covered the tattoo over his brow, and she had no idea why, but it was all just … Disgustingly distracting.

“What?” he asked, noting her gaze.

Bryce reached forward, her long braid slipping over a shoulder, and grabbed his phone from the coffee table. She snapped a photo of him and sent a copy to herself, mostly because she doubted anyone would believe her that Hunt fucking Athalar was sitting on her couch in casual clothes, sunball hat on backward, watching TV and drinking a beer.

The Shadow of Death, everyone.

“That’s annoying,” he said through his teeth.

“So is your face,” she said sweetly, tossing the phone to him. Hunt picked it up, snapped a photo of her, and then set it down, eyes on the game again.

She let him watch for another minute before she said, “You’ve been broody since Briggs.”

His mouth twisted toward the side. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

His fingers traced a circle along the couch cushion. “It brought up some bad shit. About—about the way I helped lead Shahar’s rebellion.”

She considered, retracing every horrid word and exchange in that cell beneath the Comitium.

Oh. Oh. She said carefully, “You’re nothing like Briggs, Hunt.”

His dark eyes slid toward her. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“Did you willingly and gleefully risk innocent lives to further your rebellion?”

His mouth thinned. “No.”

“Well, there you have it.”