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

Ember reached for her phone, which she’d discarded on the cushions beside her. “I’ll find the nearest medwitch and see if she can squeeze you in tomorrow—”

“I am not going to a medwitch,” Bryce snarled, and grabbed the rim of the laptop. “It was great chatting with you. I’m tired. Good night.”

Randall began to object, eyes shooting daggers at Ember, but Bryce slammed the laptop shut.

At the sink, Hunt was the portrait of smug, angelic arrogance. She aimed for her bedroom.

Ember, at least, waited two minutes before video-calling Bryce on her phone.

“Is your father behind this case?” Ember asked, venom coating each word. Even through the camera, her rage was palpable.

“Randall is not behind this,” Bryce said dryly, flopping onto her bed.

“Your other father,” Ember snapped. “This sort of arrangement reeks of him.”

Bryce kept her face neutral. “No. Jesiba and Micah are working together. Hunt and I are mere pawns.”

“Micah Domitus is a monster,” Ember breathed.

“All the Archangels are. He’s an arrogant ass, but not that bad.”

Ember’s eyes simmered. “Are you being careful?”

“I’m still taking birth control, yes.”

“Bryce Adelaide Quinlan, you know what I mean.”

“Hunt has my back.” Even if he’d thrown her under the bus by mentioning her leg to them.

Her mom was having none of it. “I have no doubt that sorceress would push you into harm’s way if it made her more money. Micah’s no better. Hunt might have your back, but don’t forget that these Vanir only look out for themselves. He’s Micah’s personal assassin, for fuck’s sake. And one of the Fallen. The Asteri hate him. He’s a slave because of it.”

“He’s a slave because we live in a fucked-up world.” Hazy wrath fogged her vision, but she blinked it away.

Her dad called out from the kitchen, asking where the microwave popcorn was. Ember hollered back that it was in the same exact place it always was, her eyes never leaving the phone’s camera. “I know you’ll bite my head off for it, but let me just say this.”

“Gods, Mom—”

“Hunt might be a good roommate, and he might be nice to look at, but remember that he’s a Vanir male. A very, very powerful Vanir male, even with those tattoos keeping him in line. He and every male like him is lethal.”

“Yeah, and you never let me forget it.” It was an effort not to look at the tiny scar on her mom’s cheekbone.

Old shadows banked the light in her mom’s eyes, and Bryce winced. “Seeing you with an older Vanir male—”

“I’m not with him, Mom—”

“It brings me back to that place, Bryce.” She ran a hand through her dark hair. “I’m sorry.”

Her mom might as well have punched her in the heart.

Bryce wished she could reach through the camera and wrap her arms around her, breathing in her honeysuckle-and-nutmeg scent.

Then Ember said, “I’ll make some calls and get that medwitch appointment for your leg.”

Bryce scowled. “No, thanks.”

“You’re going to that appointment, Bryce.”

Bryce turned the phone and stretched out her leg over the covers so her mother could see. She rotated her foot. “See? No problems.”

Her mother’s face hardened to steel that matched the wedding band on her finger. “Just because Danika died doesn’t mean you need to suffer, too.”

Bryce stared at her mother, who was always so good at cutting to the heart of everything, at rendering her into rubble with a few words. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Bullshit, Bryce.” Her mom’s eyes glazed with tears. “You think Danika would want you limping in pain for the rest of your existence? You think she would’ve wanted you to stop dancing?”

“I don’t want to talk about Danika.” Her voice trembled.

Ember shook her head in disgust. “I’ll message the medwitch’s address and number when I get the appointment for you. Good night.”

She hung up without another word.





57

Thirty minutes later, Bryce had changed into her sleep shorts and was brooding on her bed when a knock thumped on the door. “You’re a fucking traitor, Athalar,” she called.

Hunt opened the door and leaned against its frame. “No wonder you moved here, if you and your mom fight so much.”

The instinct to strangle him was overwhelming, but she said, “I’ve never seen my mom back down from a fight. It rubbed off, I guess.” She scowled at him. “What do you want?”

Hunt pushed off the door and approached. The room became too small with each step closer. Too airless. He stopped at the foot of her mattress. “I’ll go to the medwitch appointment with you.”

“I’m not going.”

“Why?”

She sucked in a breath. And then it all burst out. “Because once that wound is gone, once it stops hurting, then Danika is gone. The Pack of Devils is gone.” She shoved back the blankets, revealing her bare legs, and hitched up her silk sleep shorts so the full, twisting scar was visible. “It will all be some memory, some dream that happened for a flash and then was gone. But this scar and the pain …” Her eyes stung. “I can’t let it be erased. I can’t let them be erased.”