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

“I’ll help my friends, for whatever good it’ll do.”

“And the wolves?”

“What about them?”

“If you get more power, it could put you beyond Sabine’s abilities. Make you strong enough that you could challenge her.” She looked at him seriously. “You might be able to end Sabine’s tyranny, Ithan.”

“I …” He couldn’t find the right words. “I didn’t really think about what we’d do next.”

She wasn’t impressed. “You need to. All of us do.”

He stiffened. “I’m not a planner. I’m a sunball player, for fuck’s sake—”

“You were a sunball player,” she said. “And I suspect you haven’t thought about the implications of having the most power among the wolves because you’re avoiding thinking about what you really want.”

He glared at her. “And what is that?”

“You want Sabine gone. No one but you is going to come along and do it.”

He felt sick. “I don’t want to lead anyone.”

She gave him a look, as if seeing through him. But she said, with a disappointment that cut right to his heart, “All this arguing’s of no use. We don’t even know if the antidote works.” She eyed the vial.

She would do it, he knew. She’d try it, risk herself—

Ithan didn’t broadcast his moves before he snatched up the vial. Before he lifted it to his mouth and swallowed.

Hypaxia whirled toward him, eyes wide with apprehension—

Then there was only black.



* * *



There was his body … and more than his body.

His wolf, and him, and power, like he could leap between entire continents in one bound—

Ithan’s eyes flew open. Had the world always been so sharp, so clear? Had the morgue smelled so strongly of antiseptic? Was there a body rotting away in one of the boxes? When had that arrived? Or had it been lying there all along?

And that smell, of lavender and eucalyptus …

Hypaxia was kneeling over him, breathing hard. “Ithan—”

A blink, and a flash, and he shifted. She staggered back at the wolf that appeared, faster than he’d ever changed before.

Another blink and flash, and he was back in his humanoid body.

As easy as breathing. Fast as the wind. Something was different, something was …

His blood howled toward an unseen moon. His fingers curled on the floor as he sat up, claws scraping.

“Ithan?” The witch’s voice was a whisper.

“It worked.” The words echoed through the room, the world. “It’s gone—I can tell.”

Somehow, a barrier had been removed. One that had ordered him to stand down, to obey … It was nothing but ashes now. Only dominance remained. Untethered.

But filling the void of that barrier with a rising, raging force—

Ithan held out his hand and willed the thing under his skin to come forward. Ice and snow appeared in his palm. They did not melt against his skin.

He could fucking summon snow. The magic sang in him, an old and strange melody.

Wolves didn’t have magic like this. Never had, as far as he’d heard. Shifting and strength, yes, but this elemental power … it shouldn’t exist in a wolf, yet there it was. Rising in him, filling the place where he’d never realized the parasite had existed.

Ithan said roughly, “We need to get this to our friends.”

Hypaxia smiled grimly. “What are you going to do?”

Ithan eyed the door to the hall. “I think it’s time for me to start making some plans.”



* * *



“Only my daughter would drag us up to Nena,” Ember groused, shivering against the cold that stole even Hunt’s breath away. “You couldn’t have done this in, oh, I don’t know, the Coronal Islands?”

“The Northern Rift, Mom,” Bryce said through chattering teeth, “is in the north.”

“There’s a southern one,” Ember muttered.

“It’s even colder down there,” Bryce said, and looked to Hunt and Randall for help.

Hunt chuckled despite the frigid temperatures and howling wind that had hit them from the moment they’d stepped out of the helicopter.

They could fly no further. The massive black wall stretched for miles in either direction before curving northward, with wards protecting the airspace above it. Hunt knew from maps that the area the wall encircled was forty-nine miles in diameter—seven times seven, the holiest of numbers—and that at its center, somewhere in the barren, snow-blasted terrain, lay the Northern Rift, shrouded in mist. Barriers upon barriers protected Midgard from the Rift, and Hel beyond it.

“We better get going,” Randall said, nodding to the lead doors in the wall before them.

“There aren’t any sentries,” Hunt observed, falling into step beside the male, grateful for the snow gear Axtar had somehow procured for all of them. “There should be at least fifteen here.”

“Maybe they bailed because it was too fucking cold,” Bryce said, shivering miserably.

“An angelic guard never bails,” Randall said, tugging the faux-fur-lined hood of his parka further over his face. “If they’re not here … it’s not a good sign.”