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

“Just a moment, Miss Quinlan,” Isaiah said. The commander’s voice was calm, but take-no-shit.

Hunt hid his smile. Seeing Isaiah angry was always a good show. So long as you weren’t on the receiving end.

Quinlan hadn’t realized that yet as she glanced over a shoulder. “Yes?”

Hunt eyed her as Isaiah at last voiced their true reason for this little visit. “We weren’t just sent here to ask you about your whereabouts.”

She gestured to the gallery. “You want to buy something pretty for the Governor?”

Hunt’s mouth twitched upward. “Funny you should mention him. He’s on his way here right now.”

A slow blink. Again, no sign or scent of fear. “Why?”

“Micah just told us to get information from you about last night, and then make sure you were available and have you get your boss on the line.” Given how infrequently Hunt was asked to help out on investigations, he’d been shocked as Hel to get the order. But considering that he and Isaiah had been there that night in the alley, he supposed that made them the top choices to head this sort of thing up.

“Micah is coming here.” Her throat bobbed once.

“He’ll be here in ten minutes,” Isaiah said. He nodded toward her phone. “I suggest you call your boss, Miss Quinlan.”

Her breathing turned slightly shallow. “Why?”

Hunt dropped the bomb at last. “Because Maximus Tertian’s injuries were identical to the ones inflicted upon Danika Fendyr and the Pack of Devils.” Pulped and dismembered.

Her eyes shuttered. “But—Philip Briggs killed them. He summoned that demon to kill them. And he’s in prison.” Her voice sharpened. “He’s been in prison for two years.”

In a place worse than prison, but that was beside the point.

“We know,” Hunt said, keeping his face devoid of any reaction.

“He can’t have killed Tertian. How could he possibly summon the demon from jail?” Bryce said. “He …” She swallowed, catching herself. Realizing, perhaps, why Micah was coming. Several people she’d known had been killed, all within hours of interacting with her. “You think Briggs didn’t do it. Didn’t kill Danika and her pack.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Isaiah cut in. “But the specific details of how they all died never leaked, so we have good reason to believe this wasn’t a copycat murder.”

Bryce asked flatly, “Have you met with Sabine?”

Hunt said, “Have you?”

“We do our best to stay out of each other’s way.”

It was perhaps the only smart thing Bryce Quinlan had ever decided to do. Hunt remembered Sabine’s venom as she’d glared through the window at Bryce in the observation room two years ago, and he had no doubt Sabine was just waiting for enough time to pass for Quinlan’s unfortunate and untimely death to be considered nothing more than a fluke.

Bryce walked back to her desk, giving them a wide berth. To her credit, her gait remained unhurried and solid. She picked up the phone without so much as looking at them.

“We’ll wait outside,” Isaiah offered. Hunt opened his mouth to object, but Isaiah shot him a warning look.

Fine. He and Quinlan could spar later.

Phone held in a white-knuckled grip, Bryce listened to the other end ring. Twice. Then—

“Morning, Bryce.”

Bryce’s heartbeat pounded in her arms, her legs, her stomach. “Two legionaries are here.” She swallowed. “The Commander of the 33rd and …” She blew out a breath. “The Umbra Mortis.”

She’d recognized Isaiah Tiberian—he graced the nightly news and gossip columns often enough that there would never be any mistaking the 33rd’s beautiful Commander.

And she’d recognized Hunt Athalar, too, though he was never on television. Everyone knew who Hunt Athalar was. She’d heard of him even while growing up in Nidaros, when Randall would talk about his battles in Pangera and whispered when he mentioned Hunt. The Umbra Mortis. The Shadow of Death.

Then, the angel hadn’t worked for Micah Domitus and his legion, but for the Archangel Sandriel—he’d flown in her 45th Legion. Demon-hunting, rumor claimed his job was. And worse.

Jesiba hissed, “Why?”

Bryce clutched the phone. “Maximus Tertian was murdered last night.”

“Burning Solas—”

“The same way as Danika and the pack.”

Bryce shut out every hazy image, breathing in the bright, calming scent of the peppermint vapors rippling from the diffuser on her desk. She’d bought the stupid plastic cone two months after Danika had been killed, figuring it couldn’t hurt to try some aromatherapy during the long, quiet hours of the day, when her thoughts swarmed and descended, eating her up from the inside out. By the end of the week, she’d bought three more and placed them throughout her house.

Bryce breathed, “It seems like Philip Briggs might not have killed Danika.”

For two years, part of her had clung to it—that in the days following the murder, they’d found enough evidence to convict Briggs, who’d wanted Danika dead for busting his rebel bomb ring. Briggs had denied it, but it had added up: He’d been caught purchasing black summoning salts in the weeks before his initial arrest, apparently to fuel some sort of new, horrible weapon.