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

Celestina’s frown deepened. “The Asteri’s Communications Minister is not usually one to make mistakes. I apologize on their behalf. The Asteri found themselves with a predicament after losing two Archangels, you see. You are all that remains of Micah’s triarii, but Sandriel had a full stable in that regard. I had no triarii of my own in Nena, as the legion there technically answers to the Asteri, but Ephraim wanted to bring his own triarii with him. So rather than have his group get too large, it was split—since ours is so depleted.”

Roaring erupted in Hunt’s head. Sandriel’s triarii. The actual scum of the universe.

They were coming here. To be part of this group. In this city.

A knock sounded on the door, and Hunt twisted as Celestina said, “Come in.”

Lightning crackled at Hunt’s fingertips. The door opened, and in swaggered Pollux Antonius and Baxian Argos.

The Hammer and the Helhound.





10

Absolute quiet settled over the Governor’s office as Hunt and his friends took in the two newcomers.

One was dark-haired and brown-skinned, tall and finely muscled—the Helhound. His jet-black wings shimmered faintly, like a crow’s feathers. But it was the wicked scar snaking down his neck, forking across the column of his throat, that snared the eye.

Hunt knew that scar—he’d given it to the Helhound thirty years ago. Some powers, it seemed, even immortality couldn’t guard against.

Baxian’s obsidian eyes simmered as they met Hunt’s stare.

But Pollux’s cobalt eyes lit with feral delight as he sized up Naomi, then Isaiah, and finally Hunt. Hunt allowed his lightning to flare as he stared down the golden-haired, golden-skinned leader of Sandriel’s triarii. The most brutal, sadistic asshole to have ever walked Midgard’s soil. Motherfucker Number One.

Pollux smirked, slow and satisfied. Celestina was saying something, but Hunt couldn’t hear it.

Couldn’t hear anything except Pollux drawling, “Hello, friends,” before Hunt leapt from his chair and tackled him to the floor.

Ithan Holstrom dabbed a damp washcloth at the last of the cuts healing on his face, wincing. Bryce’s bathroom was exactly as he’d expected it to be: full of at least three kinds of shampoos and conditioners, an array of hair treatments, brushes, curling rods of two different sizes, a blow-dryer left plugged into the wall, half-burned candles, and makeup scattered up and down the marble counter like some glittery bomb had gone off.

It was almost exactly the same as her bathroom at the old apartment. Just being here made his chest tighten. Just smelling this place, smelling her made his chest tighten.

He’d had little to distract himself today, sitting alone with her chimera—Syrinx, Athalar had called him—on the couch, nearly dying of boredom watching daytime TV. He didn’t feel like trawling the news for hours, awaiting a glimpse of the new Archangel. None of the sports channels had interesting coverage on, and he had no desire to listen to those assholes talk anyway.

Ithan angled his face before the mirror to better see the cut lacing across his brow. This particular beauty had been from Sabine, a swipe of a claw-armed fist.

He had a feeling the blow had been intended for his eyes. Sure, they’d have healed after a few days or weeks, sooner if he’d gone to a medwitch, but being blinded wasn’t at the top of his to-do list.

Not that he really had anything else on his to-do list today.

His phone buzzed on the counter, and Ithan peered down to see three different news alerts and photo essays about the arrival of Celestina. Had shit not gone down with Sabine, he’d probably be gearing up to meet the beautiful malakh as part of the wolves’ formal welcome. And fealty-swearing bullshit.

But now he was a free agent. A wolf without a pack.

It wasn’t common, but it did happen. Lone wolves existed, though most roamed the wilds and were left to their own devices. He’d just never thought he’d be one.

Ithan set down his phone, hanging up the washcloth on the already-crowded towel bar.

He willed the shift, inhaling sharply and bidding his bones to melt, his skin to ripple.

It occurred to him a moment after he took his wolf form that the bathroom wasn’t quite large enough.

Indeed, a swish of his tail knocked over various bottles, sending them scattering across the marble floor. His claws clicked on the tiles, but he lifted his muzzle toward the mirror and met his reflection once more.

The horse-sized wolf that stared back was hollow-eyed, though his fur covered most of his bruising and the cuts, save for the slash along his brow.

He inhaled—and the breath stuck in his ribs. In some empty, strange pocket.

Wolf with no pack. Amelie and Sabine had not merely bloodied him, they’d exorcised him from their lives, from the Den. He backed into the towel rack, tossing his head this way and that.

Worse than an Omega. Friendless, kinless, unwanted—

Ithan shuddered back into his humanoid form. Panting, he braced his hands on the bathroom counter and waited until the nausea subsided. His phone buzzed again. Every muscle in his body tensed.

Perry Ravenscroft.

He might have ignored it had he not read the first part of the message as it appeared.

Please tell me you’re alive.

Ithan sighed. Amelie’s younger sister—the Omega of the Black Rose Pack—was technically the reason he’d made it here. Had said nothing about her sister and Sabine ripping him to shreds, but she’d carried him into the apartment. She was the only one of his former pack to bother to check in.