House of Flame and Shadow (Crescent City #3) by Sarah J. Maas

She’d taught these dreadwolves everything they knew. She used it against them now.

“Shoot that bitch!” Mordoc screamed at his snipers.

Lidia’s life diluted into each step. Each pump of her arms. Bullets sprayed rock and shrapnel at her feet. Only a few more steps.

“END HER!” Mordoc roared.

But the cliff edge was there—and then she was over it.

Lidia sobbed as she leapt, as the open air embraced her. As the rocks and surf spread below.

For a heartbeat, she thought the water might be rising to meet her.

But that was her. Falling.

A gunshot cracked like a thunderhead breaking. Pain ruptured through her chest, bone shattering, red washing over her vision.

Lidia let out a choked, bloody laugh as she died.





36


Jesiba Roga moved Ithan from the bar pretty damn quickly after he’d said precisely who he wanted to raise from the dead. He found himself transported to an office—her office, apparently—crammed full of crates and boxes of what had to be relics for her business.

She shoved him into a chair in front of a massive black desk, took a seat on the other side in a tufted white velvet armchair, and ordered him to tell her everything.

Ithan did. He needed her help, and he knew he wouldn’t get it without honesty.

When he finished, Roga leaned back in her seat, the dim golden light from her desk lamp gilding her short platinum hair.

“Well, this wasn’t how I expected my evening to go,” the sorceress said, rubbing her groomed brows. On the built-in bookshelf behind her sat three glass terrariums filled with various small creatures. People she had turned into animals? For their sake, he hoped not.

But maybe she could turn him into a worm and step on him. That’d be a mercy.

Jesiba’s eyes gleamed, as if sensing his thoughts. But she said quietly, “So you want a necromancer to raise this Sigrid Fendyr.”

“It hasn’t been very long,” Ithan said. “Her body is probably still fresh enough that—”

“I don’t need a wolf to tell me the rules of necromancy.”

“Please,” Ithan rasped. “Look, I just … I fucked up.”

“Did you?” A cold, curious question.

He swallowed against the dryness in his throat as he nodded. “I was supposed to rescue her—and she was supposed to make the Fendyrs better, to save everyone.”

Roga crossed her arms. “From what?”

“From Sabine. From how fucking awful the wolves have become—”

“As far as I remember, the wolves were the ones who raced to Asphodel Meadows this spring.”

“Sabine refused to let us go.”

“Yet you defied her and went anyway. The others followed you.”

“I’m not here to debate wolf politics.”

“But this is politics. You raise Sigrid, and … what then? Have you thought that through?”

Ithan growled, “I need to fix it.”

“And you think a necromancer will solve that problem.”

He bared his teeth. “I know what you’re thinking—”

“You don’t even know what you’re thinking, Ithan Holstrom.”

“Don’t talk to me like—”

She lifted a finger. “I will remind you that you are in my House, and asking for a gargantuan favor. You came here uninvited, which itself is a violation of our rules. So unless you want me to hand you over to the vamps to be sucked dry and left to rot on the dock, I suggest you check that tone, pup.”

Ithan glared, but shut his mouth.

Roga smiled slightly. “Good dog.”

Ithan reined in his growl. She smiled wider at that.

But after a moment she said, “Where’s Quinlan?”

“I don’t know.”

Roga nodded to herself. “I do nothing for free, you know.”

He met her stare, letting her see that he’d give her whatever she wanted. Her lips pursed with distaste at his desperation. He didn’t care.

“Most necromancers,” she continued, “are arrogant pricks who will fuck you over.”

“Great,” he muttered.

“But I know one who might be trustworthy.”

“Name your price. And theirs.”

“I told you already: I need a competent assistant. As far as memory serves, you were a history major at CCU.” At his questioning look, she said, “Quinlan used to prattle on and on about how proud of you she was.” His chest ached unbearably. Roga rolled her eyes, either at her words or at whatever was on his face, then gestured to the crates and boxes around her. “As you can see, I have goods that need sorting and shipping.”

Ithan slowly blinked. “You mean … work for you, and you’ll get me in touch with this necromancer?”

A dip of her chin.

“But I need it done now,” he said, “while her body’s still fresh—”

“I shall arrange to have the body transported from wherever the Viper Queen has thrown it, and keep it … on ice, as it were. Safe and sound. Until the necromancer becomes available.”

“Which is how long?”

Her lips curved. “What’s the rush?”

He couldn’t answer. He didn’t believe The weight of my own guilt is killing me and I can’t stand it another moment would make any difference to her.