House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City #2) by Sarah J. Maas

They’d had this conversation twice already on the walk over. She was likely going to lose this round as well, but it was worth a shot. If Hunt had been with her, he’d have gotten his point across in that alphahole way of his. But he hadn’t answered his phone.

He’d probably give her Hel for coming here without him.

Bryce sighed to the baking-hot sky. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

“That’s the spirit, Legs.” Tharion clapped her on the back. Ithan frowned at the doors.

Bryce reached for the door chime, a crescent moon dangling from a delicate iron chain. She yanked it once, twice. An off-kilter ringing echoed.

“This is a really bad idea,” she muttered again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ithan said, tipping his head back to study the building. The tattoo of Amelie’s pack was glaringly dark in the sun. She wondered if he wanted to tear the flesh off and start anew.

Bryce set the question aside as one of the planets carved in the door—the five-ringed behemoth that was Thurr—swung away, revealing a pale gray eye. “Appointment?”

Tharion held up his BCIU badge. “The Blue Court requires your assistance.”

“Does it, now?” A croaking laugh as that eye—eerily sharp despite the wrinkles around it—fixed on the mer. It narrowed in amusement or pleasure. “One of the river folk. What a treat, what a treat.”

The planet slammed shut, and Tharion stepped onto the slate front step as the doors cracked open a sliver. Cold air rippled out, along with the tang of salt and the smothering dampness of mold.

Ithan trailed Bryce, swearing under his breath at the scent. She twisted, throwing him a reproachful glare. He winced, falling into step beside her with that sunball player’s grace as they entered the cavernous space beyond.

A gray-robed old male stood before them. Not human, but his scent declared nothing other than some sort of Vanir humanoid. His heavy white beard fell to the thin band of rope that served as a belt, his wispy hair long and unbound. Four rings of silver and gold glinted on one of his withered, spotted hands, with small stars blazing in the center of each, trapped in the nearly invisible glass domes.

No—not stars.

Bryce’s stomach turned over at the minuscule hand that pressed against the other side of the glass. There was no mistaking the desperation in that touch.

Fire sprites. Enslaved, all of them. Bought and sold.

Bryce struggled to keep from ripping that hand clean off the arm that bore it. She could feel Ithan watching her, feel him trying to puzzle out why she’d gone so still and stiff, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the sprites—

“It is not every day that one of the mer crosses my doorstep,” the old male said, his smile revealing too-white teeth, still intact despite his age. Unless they’d come from someone else. “Let alone in the company of a wolf and a Fae.”

Bryce gripped her purse, mastering her temper, and lifted her chin. “We need to consult your …” She peered past his bony shoulder to the dim space beyond. “Services.” And then I’ll take all four of those rings and smash them open.

“I shall be honored.” The male bowed at the waist to Tharion, but didn’t bother to extend the courtesy to Bryce and Ithan. “This way.”

Bryce kept a hand within casual distance of the knife in her purse as they entered the dimness. She wished she had the reassuring weight and strength of Danika’s sword, but the blade would have stood out too much.

The space consisted of two levels, bookshelves crammed with tomes and scrolls rising to the dark-veiled ceiling, an iron ramp winding up the walls in a lazy spiral. A great golden orb dangled in the center of the room, lit from within.

And beneath them, in tubs built into the slate floor …

To her left, Ithan sucked in a breath.

Three mystics slept, submerged in greenish, cloudy water, breathing masks strapped to their faces. Their white shifts floated around them, doing little to hide the skeletal bodies beneath. One male, one female, one both. That was how it always was, how it had always been. Perfect balance.

Bryce’s stomach turned over again. She knew the sensation wouldn’t stop until she left.

“May I interest you in a hot tea before we begin the formalities?” the old male asked Tharion, gesturing to a thick oak table to the right of the ramp’s base.

“We’re pressed for time,” Ithan lied, stepping up to Tharion’s side. Fine. Let them deal with the old creep.

Ithan set a pile of gold marks on the table with a clink. “If that doesn’t cover the cost, give me the bill for the remainder.” That drew Bryce’s attention. Ithan spoke with such … authority. She’d heard him talk to his teammates as their captain, had seen him in command plenty, but the Ithan she’d known these past few days had been subdued.

“Of course, of course.” The male’s filmy eyes swept around the room. “I can have my beauties up and running within a few minutes.” He hobbled toward the walkway and braced a hand on the iron rail as he began the ascent.

Bryce glanced back to the three mystics in their tubs, their thin bodies, their pale, soggy skin. Built into the floor beside them was a panel covered in a language she had never seen.

“Pay them no heed, miss,” the old male called, still winding his way toward a platform about halfway up the room, filled with dials and wheels. “When they’re not in use, they drift. Where they go and what they see is a mystery, even to me.”