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

Celestina laughed merrily. There was no wariness or displeasure in it—no indication that she might know the truth. “Good. I’m happy for you. For both of you.”

“Thank you,” Hunt said. He added, to cover his bases, “Ruhn and Prince Cormac joined us, though. It made things … slightly awkward.”

“Because Cormac is technically Bryce’s fiancé?” Celestina asked wryly.

Hunt snorted. “That, too, but mostly because Ember isn’t … a fan of the Fae. She asked Ruhn to come, since she hadn’t seen him in years, but it was still tense at times.”

“I’ve heard of her history with the Autumn King. I’m sorry that it still haunts her.”

“So am I,” Hunt said. “Anything happen here while I was gone?”

“Only if you count overseeing party preparations for the equinox.”

Hunt chuckled. “That fun, huh?”

“Riveting,” Celestina said, then seemed to remember herself because she added, “Of course, it’s for a joyous occasion, so it’s not entirely a chore.”

“Of course.”

The sun through the windows behind her turned her white wings radiant. “Baxian might have something more interesting to report. He was barely here yesterday.”

It took all of Hunt’s training to keep his own face neutral as he said, “I’ve got a meeting with Isaiah, but my next stop after that is to check in with him.”

Everything between them was a lie. And one word from the Hind … Hunt suppressed the surge of his power as it crackled through him.

Baxian might have claimed he was a rebel sympathizer, might have helped them enough to garner some trust, but … he’d be a fool to trust him entirely.

“What’s wrong?” Celestina asked, brow furrowing with worry.

Hunt shook his head. “Nothing.” He clasped his hands behind his back and asked casually, “Anything for me to do today?”

Hunt emerged from the Archangel’s office five minutes later with a stack of preliminary reports on demon activity at the Northern Rift. She wanted his expertise in examining the types of demons caught, as well as an analysis on whether the breeds and frequency meant Hel was planning something.

The answer was a definite yes, but he’d find some way to draw out the task to buy himself more time. To decide how much to tell her about Hel.

Apollion had spoken true, about him and Bryce and their powers. And if the Prince of the Pit had been honest about that, what else had he been honest about? Some shit with Hel was stirring. Hunt’s gut twisted.

But he still had one more thing to do before descending into all of that. He hunted down the Hind in ten minutes, finding her in the barracks bathroom, applying red lipliner, of all things. He’d never thought she might actually have to put on her makeup. Somehow, he pictured her permanently coiffed and painted.

“Hunter,” she crooned without breaking her stare from the mirror. They were alone.

“Don’t call me that.”

“You never did like Sandriel’s nickname for you.”

“I had no interest in being part of her club.”

The Hind kept drawing her lipliner with a steady hand. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Hunt leaned against the bathroom door, blocking any exit. She slid a kohl-lined eye in his direction.

“What are you going to do about what happened yesterday?” he asked.

She opened a tube of lipstick and began filling in the precise outline she’d drawn. “If you’re referring to when I fucked Pollux in the showers, I’m afraid I’m not going to apologize to Naomi Boreas for leaving the stall door open. I did invite her to join, you know.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

She started on her top lip. “Then enlighten me.”

Hunt stared at her. She’d seen him. Spoken to him, to all of them, while they’d been in the water. He’d gone ballistic, ready to slaughter her. Had needed his mate’s touch and body to calm down afterward.

Hunt growled, “Is this some sort of cat-and-mouse game?”

She set the golden lipstick tube on the counter and pivoted. Beautiful and cold as a statue of Luna. “You’re the hunter. You tell me.”

This female had killed Sofie Renast. Drowned her. And had tortured so many others that the silver torque around her neck practically screamed the names of the dead.

When Hunt said nothing, the Hind inspected herself in the mirror, tucking a stray tendril of hair into her elegant chignon. She then stalked toward him—to the door. He stepped away silently. The Hind said as she exited, “Perhaps you’ll stop prattling on about nonsense once you see what the Harpy did by the Angels’ Gate. It’s rather extraordinary.”

Ten minutes later, Hunt learned what she meant.

The crystal Gate in the heart of the CBD was muted in the midmorning light, but no one was looking at it anyway. The gathered crowd was snapping pictures and murmuring about the two figures lying facedown on the ground beneath it.

It had been a long while since Hunt had seen anyone blood-eagled.

The corpses wore black stealth clothes—or shreds of them. Rebels. That was the Ophion crest on their red armbands, and the sinking sun of the Lightfall squadron above it.

Across the Gate’s square, someone vomited, then sprinted away, crying softly.