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

Bryce cleared her throat and admitted, “It’s, um, hard. To make myself remember. I thought … maybe you could ask me some questions. Help get the … memories flowing.”

“Ah. Okay.” Silence rippled again as she waited for him to remind her that time wasn’t on their side, that he had a fucking job to do and she shouldn’t be such a wimp, blah blah.

But Hunt surveyed the books; the tanks; the door to the bathroom at the back of the space; the lights high above, disguised like the stars painted across the ceiling. And then, rather than ask her about Danika, he said, “Did you study antiquities at school?”

“I took a few classes, yeah. I liked learning about old crap. I was a classical literature major.” She added, “I learned the Old Language of the Fae when I was a kid.” She’d taught herself out of a sudden interest in learning more about her heritage. When she’d gone to her father’s house a year later—for the first time in her life—she’d hoped to use it to impress him. After everything went to shit, she’d refused to learn another language. Childish, but she didn’t care.

Though knowing the most ancient of the Fae languages had been helpful for this job, at least. For the few Fae antiquities that weren’t hoarded in their glittering troves.

Hunt again surveyed the space. “How’d you get this job?”

“After I graduated, I couldn’t get a job anywhere. The museums didn’t want me because I didn’t have enough experience, and the other art galleries in town were run by creeps who thought I was … appetizing.” His eyes darkened, and she made herself ignore the rage she beheld there on her behalf. “But my friend Fury …” Hunt stiffened slightly at the name—he clearly knew her reputation. “Well, she and Jesiba worked together in Pangera at some point. And when Jesiba mentioned that she needed a new assistant, Fury basically shoved my résumé down her throat.” Bryce snorted at the memory. “Jesiba offered me the job because she didn’t want an uptight priss. The work is too dirty, customers too shady. She needed someone with social skills as well as a little background in ancient art. And that was that.”

Hunt considered, then asked, “What’s your deal with Fury Axtar?”

“She’s in Pangera. Doing what Fury does best.” It wasn’t really an answer.

“Axtar ever tell you what she gets up to over there?”

“No. And I like it to stay that way. My dad told me enough stories about what it’s like. I don’t enjoy imagining what Fury sees and deals with.” Blood and mud and death, science versus magic, machines versus Vanir, bombs of chemicals and firstlight, bullets and fangs.

Randall’s own service had been mandatory, a condition of life for any non-Lower in the peregrini class: all humans had to serve in the military for three years. Randall had never said it, but she’d always known the years on the front had left deep scars beyond those visible on him. Being forced to kill your own kind was no small task. But the Asteri’s threat remained: Should any refuse, their lives would be forfeit. And then the lives of their families. Any survivors would be slaves, their wrists forever inked with the same letters that marred Hunt’s skin.

“There’s no chance Danika’s murderer might have been connected to—”

“No.” Bryce growled. She and Fury might be totally fucked up right now, but she knew that. “Fury’s enemies weren’t Danika’s enemies. Once Briggs was behind bars, she bailed.” Bryce hadn’t seen her since.

Searching for anything to change the topic, Bryce asked, “How old are you?”

“Two hundred thirty-three.”

She did the math, frowning. “You were that young when you rebelled? And already commanded a legion?” The angels’ failed rebellion had been two hundred years ago; he’d have been incredibly young—by Vanir standards—to have led it.

“My gifts made me invaluable to people.” He held up a hand, lightning writhing around his fingers. “Too good at killing.” She grunted her agreement. Hunt eyed her. “You ever killed before?”

“Yes.”

Surprise lit his eyes. But she didn’t want to go into it—what had happened with Danika senior year that had left them both in the hospital, her arm shattered, and a stolen motorcycle little more than scrap.

Lehabah cut in from across the library, “BB, stop being cryptic! I’ve wanted to know for years, Athie, but she never tells me anything good—”

“Leave it, Lehabah.” The memories of that trip pelted her. Danika’s smiling face in the hospital bed beside hers. How Thorne carried Danika up the stairs of their dorm when they got home, despite her protests. How the pack had fussed over them for a week, Nathalie and Zelda kicking the males out one night so they could have a girls-only moviefest. But none of it had compared to what had changed between her and Danika on that trip. The final barrier that had fallen, the truth laid bare.

I love you, Bryce. I’m so sorry.

Close your eyes, Danika.

A hole tore open in her chest, gaping and howling.

Lehabah was still grousing. But Hunt was watching Bryce’s face. He asked, “What’s one happy memory you have with Danika from the last week of her life?”

Her blood pounded through her entire body. “I—I have a lot of them from that week.”