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

Bryce slowly shook her head. “Light. Just … light.” Strange, terrible light from another world, she’d once been told.

From this world.

Nesta’s eyes glimmered. “What court did your ancestors hail from?”

“I don’t know. The Fae ancestor whose powers I bear, Theia—she was Starborn. Like me.”

“That term means nothing here.” Nesta pulled Bryce to her feet with ease. “But Amren told me what you said of Theia, the queen who went to your world from ours.”

Bryce brushed the dust and rock off her back, her ass. Her ego. “My ancestor, yes.”

“Theia was High Queen of these lands. Before she left,” Nesta said.

“She was?” A powerful ruler here as well as in Midgard. Her ancestor had been High Queen. Bryce carried not only Theia’s starlight—she carried her royal ties to this world. Which could land her in some major hot water with these people, if they felt threatened by Bryce’s lineage—if they believed she might have some sort of claim to their throne.

Nesta’s eyes drifted to the star on Bryce’s chest, then to the shadows behind her. But she let the subject drop, turning toward the tunnel ahead. “If we encounter something that wants to eat us again,” the warrior said, “don’t stare at it like a startled deer. Either run, or fight.”

Randall would like this female. The thought pained her. But she snapped back, “I’ve been doing that my entire life. I don’t need a lesson from you about it.”

“Then don’t make me risk my neck dragging you out of danger next time,” Nesta said coolly.

“I didn’t ask you to save me,” Bryce growled.

But Nesta began walking into the tunnel once more—not waiting for Bryce or her star to light the way. “You’ve gotten us into enough of a mess as it is,” the warrior said without looking back. “Keep close.”





8


The shadows were watching him again.

Baxian and Ruhn had passed out, and Hunt had thought he’d lost consciousness, too, but … here he was. Watching a shadow watch him back. It stood beside the rack of devices Pollux and the Hawk had used on him.

Lidia hadn’t appeared today. He didn’t know whether that was a good sign. Didn’t dare ask Ruhn for his take on it. Hunt supposed that, out of all of them, he himself should be the one to know whether it was a good sign. He’d lived through this shit for years.

But he should have known a lot of other things, too.

Hunt had lost feeling in his hands, his shoulders. The itching from his slowly regenerating wings continued, though. Like streams of ants tickling down his spine. No writhing could help it.

He should have known not to tangle with Archangels, with the Asteri. He should have warned Bryce more strongly—should have tried harder to get her to back down from this insane path.

Isaiah had tried to convince him all those centuries ago. Hunt hadn’t listened … and he’d lived with the consequences. He should have learned.

His blood cooled as it ran along his body. Dripped to the floor.

But he hadn’t learned a fucking thing, apparently. One didn’t take on the Asteri and their hierarchies and win. He should have known.

The shadow smiled at him.

So Hunt smiled back. And then the shadow spoke.

“You would do well in Hel.”

Too drugged with agony, Hunt didn’t even quiver at the familiar male voice. One he’d already heard in another dream, another life.

“Apollion,” he grunted. Not Death at all, then.

He tried not to let disappointment sink in his gut.

“What a sorry state you’re in,” the Prince of the Pit purred. He remained hidden in the shifting shadows. The demon prince inhaled, as if tasting the air. “What delicious pain you feel.”

“I’d be happy to share.”

A terrifyingly soft laugh. “Your good humor, it seems, remains intact. Even with the halo inked anew upon your brow.”

Hunt smiled savagely. “I had the honor of having it done by Rigelus’s hand this time.”

“Interesting that he would do it himself, rather than employ an imperial hag. Do you detect a difference?”

Hunt’s chin dipped. “This one … stings. The hag’s halo felt like cold iron. This burns like acid.” He’d just finished voicing the last word when a thought slammed into him. “Bryce. Is she … is she with you?” If they’d hurt her, if Apollion gave one suggestion that—

“No.” The shadow seemed to blink. “Why?”

Horror leached through Hunt, colder than ice. “Bryce didn’t make it to Hel?” Where was she, then? Had she made it anywhere, or was she tumbling through time and space, forever trapped—

He must have made some pitiful noise because Apollion said, “One moment before the hysterics, Athalar,” and vanished.

Hunt couldn’t breathe. Maybe it was the weight of his body crushing his lungs, but … Bryce hadn’t made it. She hadn’t fucking made it to Hel, and he was stuck here, and—

Apollion appeared again, a second shadow at his side. Taller and thinner, with eyes like blue opals.

“Where is Bryce?” hissed the Prince of the Chasm.

“She went to find you.” Hunt’s voice broke. Beside him, Ruhn groaned, stirring. “She went to fucking find you, Aidas.” The Princes of Hel looked at each other, some wordless conversation passing between them. Hunt pushed, “You two told her to find you. Fed us all that bullshit about armies and wanting to help and getting her ready—”