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

“Call us,” Bryce said. “If you can’t reach us, get the antidote to the Eternal City. There’s a fleet of mech-suits on Mount Hermon—hide near there, and we’ll find you.”

“When, though?”

Bryce’s face hardened. “You’ll know when it’s too late to help us.”

Ithan started, “Bryce—”

But Bryce nodded toward the glimmering sea. “As fast as you can,” she repeated to the former witch-queen. “I’m begging you.”

With that, she walked to Athalar, and he leapt into the skies, flying them in the direction the others had headed.

There was no chance to talk to Tharion or Flynn or Dec. No chance to even say goodbye. From the way Hypaxia was watching the angel and Bryce vanish toward the distant ruins, he suspected she was thinking the same thing about Lidia.

Twenty minutes later, Bryce and Athalar were back, half a dozen quartz crystals sizzling in the angel’s hands. Bottled lightning.

Hypaxia pocketed them, promising to use them well. Bryce kissed her cheek, then Ithan’s.

Once, he would have done anything for that kiss. But now it left him hollow, reeling.

Athalar only clapped Ithan on the shoulder before launching skyward with Bryce again, soon no more than a speck against the blue.

When they were alone, Hypaxia motioned to the path they’d taken up from the beach. “We must rise to meet this challenge, Ithan,” she said, her voice sure. She patted the lightning-filled crystals now glowing through the pockets of her dark blue robes.

With that, she started off for the boat and the task before them.

Ithan lingered for a moment longer. He’d failed in this quest, too. He’d had a second shot at fixing Sigrid, and he’d failed. It was important to help their friends—and all of Midgard—but the decision weighed on him.

He’d always thought of himself as a good guy, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he’d been deluding himself.

He didn’t know where that left him.

Ithan followed Hypaxia, turning his back on Avallen and the sliver of hope it had offered. To have the lightning in hand, but to have to postpone any effort to help Sigrid …

He had no choice but to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Maybe at some point, he’d stop leaving a trail of absolute destruction in his wake.





67


Hunt found Baxian arranging fresh bundles of hay in the castle stables. They remained intact, located just far enough away from the castle to have been spared during its collapse. “You got the lightning to the wolf and the witch?” Baxian asked by way of greeting.

“They’re on their way back to Lunathion with it. But the priority is to try to find a cure for the parasite.”

“Good,” Baxian grunted. “I hope they have more success than I’ve had with finding us housing for tonight.”

“That bad, huh?” Hunt said, leaning against the doorway.

“No one wants to loan us a room or even a bed, so short of kicking people out of their homes …” The Helhound gestured grandly to the stables. “Welcome to Hotel Horseshit.”

Hunt chuckled, surveying the woodwork. “Honestly, I’ve slept in way worse. These horses have a nicer home than the one I grew up in.”

Sad, but true.

“Same,” Baxian said, and it surprised Hunt enough that he lifted a brow. Baxian said, “I, ah … grew up in one of the poorer parts of Ravilis. Being half-shifter—half–Helhound shifter—and half-angel … it didn’t make my parents popular with either the House of Earth and Blood or the House of Sky and Breath. Made it hard for them to keep their jobs.”

“Which one of your parents was the angel?”

“My dad,” Baxian said. “He served as a captain in Sandriel’s 45th. He had it easier than my mom, who was shunned by everyone she ever knew for ‘sullying’ herself with an angel. But they both paid the price for being together.”

From the way his tone darkened, Hunt knew it had to have been bad. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I was eight. I still don’t know how the mob started, but …” Baxian’s throat worked, yet he finished one pallet of hay and moved on to start another. “It ended with my mom torn to shreds by her fellow Helhounds, and my father seized by the very angels he commanded and given the Living Death.”

Hunt blew out a breath. “Fuck.”

“They were in such a frenzy, they, ah …” Baxian shook his head. “They kept cutting off his wings every time they tried to heal. He lost so much blood in the end that he didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry,” Hunt said again. “I never knew.”

“No one did. Not even Sandriel.” Baxian laid a blanket over the next pallet. “From then on, I was on my own. Neither side of the family would take a half-breed, as they made sure to call me, so I learned how to fend for myself in the slums. How to keep hidden, how to listen for valuable information—how to sell that information to interested parties. I became good enough at it that I made a name for myself. The Snake, they called me, because I fucked over so many people. And Sandriel eventually heard about me and recruited me for her triarii—to be her spy-master and tracker. The Snake became the Helhound, but … I kept a few touches.”