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

“Good,” Holstrom said, pacing in front of Roga’s desk. “That’s what Jesiba told me earlier. But where do we rendezvous?”

“That’s the tough part,” Tharion admitted, sliding into one of the chairs. Sathia sat quietly in the other one, lost in thought. “The reception cut off before we could get to that. I tried calling him back, and Quinlan, and her parents, but … nothing.”

“Maybe they got the Rift open,” Hypaxia mused. “Magic pouring into Midgard from Hel could be disrupting the connection. Demons cause power outages sometimes with their presence. Imagine what a lot of them all at once might do.”

“It’s possible, but doesn’t change the issue at hand,” Holstrom said. The wolf had changed—somehow, in the span of a day, he’d gone from lost to focused. From lone wolf to Prime. Tharion had gotten a vague story out of him about facing Sabine, and Hypaxia taking on the Under-King to become Head of the House of Flame and Shadow, but even beyond that, they seemed like they’d leveled up. Majorly.

Especially Ithan. Even the most powerful of wolves only had shifting abilities and super strength—not actual magic. And yet Holstrom, suddenly, had the ability to wield ice. Like the power had been locked in his bloodline all this time. But Tharion put aside the thought as Holstrom added, “We need to figure out how to link up with them.”

“I’m sure if the Rift is open, we’ll see them coming a mile off,” Tharion said.

“We need to find Hunt and Bryce before they enter into any kind of confrontation with the Asteri,” Ithan insisted. He picked up a vial of clear liquid from the desk. “Hypaxia found a cure for the Asteri’s parasite. We need to distribute it to everyone we can.”

Tharion blinked in shock. Sathia stopped her brooding to listen.

Then Ithan pulled out a long, dark bullet from his pocket. “And we need to get this to Bryce as soon as possible.”

“What is that?” Tharion asked as a strange, ancient sort of power thrummed from the black bullet.

Ithan’s face was grim. “A gift from the dead.”





85


“Well, friends,” Bryce said to Hunt, to Declan and Flynn, to Ruhn and Lidia. They had all gathered in a nondescript white van—one of a fleet Ophion had kept stashed throughout Pangera should an agent on the run ever need an escape vehicle—on the edge of the Eternal City. And though Lidia was frantic with urgency to rescue her sons, this step was necessary. “Ready to change the world?”

Jesiba had just sent over the footage of Micah’s demise.

“Let’s burn this fucker down,” Flynn said, and Dec nodded, typing away on his laptop.

“We’re recording in thirty seconds,” Dec warned Bryce, and she looked to where Hunt sat next to her, so quiet, so thoughtful. Terrified, she realized.

He glanced up, bleak fear in his eyes as he said hoarsely, “The last time I took a stand like this, with the Fallen … it cost me everything.” He swallowed hard, but he kept his gaze on her. She could have sworn lightning sparked along his wings. “But this time I have Bryce Adelaide Quinlan at my side.”

She took his hand in hers, squeezing tightly. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” she whispered to him, and his eyes flickered in recognition. He’d said the same thing to her once—that day she’d had the kristallos venom removed from her leg.

He squeezed her hand back. “Let’s light it up.”

Declan signaled, and the red light on his laptop camera turned on.

Bryce stared into the camera’s lens and said, “I am Bryce Quinlan. Heir to the Starborn Fae, Queen of the Fae in Avallen and Valbara, but most importantly … the half-human daughter of Ember Quinlan and Randall Silago.”

Hunt barely seemed to be breathing as Bryce said, “This is my mate and husband, Hunt Athalar. And we’re here to show you …”

It hit her, right then—a wave of nerves.

Hunt sensed it and picked up her thread without missing a beat. “We’re here to show you that the Republic is not as all-powerful as you’ve been led to believe.” He lifted his chin. “Centuries ago, I led a legion—the Fallen—against the Archangels, against the Asteri. You know how it ended. That day on Mount Hermon, only one other group of Vanir came to our aid: the sprites. We all suffered for it, and those of us who survived are still punished to this day.” His throat worked, and Bryce had never loved him more as he continued, “But today we’re here to tell you that it’s worth it. Fighting back. That it’s possible to defy them and live. That their hierarchies, their rules … it’s all bullshit. And it’s time to put a stop to it.”

Bryce might have smiled had she not finally found the right words. “What happened in Asphodel Meadows was an atrocity. What happened to those innocent families …” She bared her teeth. “It must never be allowed to happen again. We, the people of Midgard, can never allow it to happen again.”

She looked the camera dead in its dark eye, looked at the world beyond. “The Asteri lie to you, all of you, every second of every single day. For the past fifteen thousand years, they’ve lied to us, enslaved us, and we haven’t even known the half of it. They use a parasite in the water to control and harvest our magic under the guise of the Drop. Because they need that magic—they need us, our power. Without the power from the people of Midgard, the Asteri are nothing.”