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

* * *



Ithan bottled and labeled the various samples, gave Hypaxia a few vials of his blood as a base for an infected person, and then she sent him back out for more water samples from different sources. The dining hall, a nearby restaurant, and—best of all—the sewers.

He was on his way back through the dark door of the House of Flame and Shadow when the hair on the back of his neck rose. He knew that eerie, unsettled feeling. He whirled—

It wasn’t Sigrid. A different female Reaper, veiled head to toe in black, glided smoothly over the quay. People outright fled—the street behind her was wholly empty.

But she continued toward the door, where Ithan stood frozen. He had no option, really, but to hold the door open for her.

The Reaper drifted by, black veils billowing. Acid-green eyes gleamed beneath the dark fabric over her face, and her rasping voice turned his bowels watery as she said, “Thank you,” and continued into the stairwell.

Ithan waited five whole minutes before following. She had no scent at all. Not even the reek of a corpse. As if she’d ceased to exist in any earthly way. It drove his wolf nuts.

But—

Ithan sniffed the air of the stairwell again as he descended toward the lowest levels of the House and the morgue-lab. As he slipped into the lab and shut the door behind him, he asked, “What happens to the parasite when we die?”

Hypaxia finally looked up from her papers and vials and forms. “What?”

“I just saw a Reaper,” he said. “They’re dead. Well, they died. So do they still have the parasite? They don’t eat or drink, so they couldn’t be reinfected, right? But does the parasite disappear when we die? Does it die, too?”

Hypaxia blinked slowly. “That’s an interesting question. And if the parasite does indeed die when the host does, then Reapers might provide a way to locate the parasite simply by the lack of it in their own bodies.”

“Why do I feel like you’re going to ask me to—”

“I need you to get me a Reaper.”



* * *



Dawn broke, purple and golden, over the islands of Avallen. But Bryce only had eyes for the helicopter making its descent onto the grassy, blooming field before the ruins of Morven’s castle. She smiled grimly.

The roar was deafening to her Fae ears, but she had insisted on being here. On seeing this: Fury waving from the pilot’s seat, June waving frantically from beside her.

Bryce waved back, her throat tight to the point of pain, and then the side door to the helicopter slid open, and a yip cut through the air.

There was no stopping Syrinx as he bounded off the helicopter and raced for her through the high grasses. She dropped to her knees to hug him, kiss him, let him lick all over her face as he wiggled his little lion’s tail and yowled with joy.

Boots crunched in the grass, and Randall was walking toward her, a pack on his back and a rifle slung over his shoulder. His eyes were bright as he beheld her, and he clapped the tall boy at his side—Emile, now Cooper—on the shoulder.

And Bryce couldn’t stop her laugh of pure joy as her mother leapt out of the helicopter behind them, took one look at Bryce kneeling in the meadow, and said, “Bryce Adelaide Quinlan, what’s all this talk about you jumping around between worlds?”





69


Ithan knew he’d have no luck convincing a Reaper on his own. At least without risking getting his soul sucked out and eaten. But fortunately, there were plenty of Reapers who would answer Jesiba Roga’s summons. Unfortunately, one arrived at the morgue within an hour of Jesiba’s request to the Under-King.

Ithan kept reminding himself of every exit, of his strength, of where the knife in his boot was, of how quickly he could summon claws or shift—

The male Reaper was relatively fresh, judging by the way he’d strutted—only a hint of a glide—into the morgue. This one seemed inclined to play rock star, with his torn black jeans dangling precariously off his prominent hip bones and an array of tattoos scattered over his unnervingly pale torso. No shirt to be seen. He’d bothered with ass-kicking black boots, left partially untied at the tops, and he’d strapped twin black leather bracelets at his wrists.

Gods, Bryce would have had a field day with this guy—his long golden hair was very carefully mussed. That is, until she beheld the acid-green eyes, and the throat that revealed precisely where his death blow had been. The wound had sealed over, but the scars remained.

“Thank you for coming,” Hypaxia said, standing beside the examination table with queenly grace. “This will only take a few moments.”

The Reaper glanced between her and Ithan, but sauntered over to the table, hopping on with a thud that set the metal shuddering. “Heard you defected, witchy-witch.” His voice was a hoarse, wicked rasp. It might have been dismissed as a result of the death wound to his throat, but it was typical of a Reaper. Exactly how Sigrid’s voice had sounded—

“Welcome to the House,” the Reaper continued, bluish lips quirking up in a sneer. He nodded to Ithan. “What’s a wolf pup doing here?”

Ithan mastered his primal fear of the creature before them and crossed his arms. “What’s it to you?”

“You’re Holstrom, right?” That sneer didn’t fade. If this shithead said anything about Connor—