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

“You tell us.” Darkness gathered in the shadow of Rhysand’s wings. Not a good sign.

She was in another world, with strangers who were clearly powerful and wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. Every word from her lips was vital to her safety and survival.

“I just watched my mate and my brother get captured by a group of intergalactic parasites,” she snarled. “I have no interest in doing anything except finding a way to help them.”

Rhysand looked to the warrior, who nodded, not taking his gaze off Bryce for so much as a blink.

“Well,” Rhysand said to Bryce, crossing his muscled arms. “That’s true, at least.”

Yet the petite female remained unmoved. In fact, her features had tightened at Bryce’s outburst. “Explain.”

They were Fae. There was nothing to suggest that they were better than the pieces of shit Bryce had known for most of her life. And somehow, despite appearing to be stuck a few centuries behind her own world, they seemed even more powerful than the Midgardian Fae, which could only lead to more arrogance and entitlement.

She needed to get to Hel. Or at the very least back to Midgard. And if she said too much …

The female noted her hesitation and said, “Just look in her mind already, Rhys.”

Bryce went rigid. Oh gods. He could pry into her head, see anything he wanted—

Rhysand glanced at the female. She held his stare with a ferocity that belied her small stature. If Rhysand was in charge, his underlings certainly weren’t expected to be silent cronies.

Bryce eyed the lone door. No way to reach it in time, even on the off chance they’d left it unlocked. Running wouldn’t save her. Would the Archesian amulet provide any protection? It hadn’t prevented Ruhn’s mind-speaking, but—

I do not pry where I am not willingly invited.

Bryce lurched back in the chair, nearly knocking it over at the smooth male voice in her mind. Rhysand’s voice.

But she answered, thanking Luna for keeping her own voice cool and collected, Code of mind-speaking ethics?

She felt him pause—as if almost amused. You’ve encountered this method of communication before.

Yes. It was all she’d say about Ruhn.

May I look in your memories? To see for myself?

No. You may not.

Rhysand blinked slowly. Then he said aloud, “Then we’ll have to rely on your words.”

The petite female gaped at him. “But—”

Rhysand snapped his fingers and three chairs appeared behind them. He sank gracefully onto one, crossing an ankle over a knee. The epitome of Fae beauty and arrogance. He glanced up at his companions. “Azriel.” He motioned lazily to the male. Then to the female. “Amren.”

Then he motioned to Bryce and said neutrally, “Bryce … Quinlan.”

Bryce nodded slowly.

Rhysand examined his trimmed, clean nails. “So your sword … it’s been in your world for fifteen thousand years?”

“Brought by my ancestor.” She debated the next bit, then added, “Queen Theia. Or Prince Pelias, depending on what propaganda’s being spun.”

Amren stiffened slightly. Rhysand slid his eyes to her, clocking the movement.

Bryce dared to push, “You … know of them?”

Amren surveyed Bryce from her blood-splattered neon-pink shoes to her high ponytail. The blood smeared on Bryce’s face, now stiff and sticky. “No one has spoken those names here in a very, very long time.”

In fifteen thousand years, Bryce was willing to bet.

“But you have heard of them?” Bryce’s heart thundered.

“They once … dwelled here,” Amren said carefully.

It was the last scrap of confirmation Bryce needed about what this planet was. Something settled deep in her, a loose thread at last pulling taut. “So this is it, then. This is where we—the Midgard Fae—originated. My ancestors left this world and went to Midgard … and we forgot where we came from.”

Silence again. Azriel spoke in their own language, and Rhysand translated. Perhaps Rhysand had been translating for Azriel mind-to-mind these last few minutes.

“He says we have no such stories about our people migrating to another world.”

Yet Amren let out a small, choked sound.

Rhysand turned slowly, a bit incredulous. “Do we?” he asked smoothly.

Amren picked at an invisible speck on her silk blouse. “It’s murky. I went in before …” She shook her head. “But when I came out, there were rumors. That a great number of people had vanished, as if they had never been. Some said to another world, others said they’d moved on to distant lands, still others said they’d been chosen by the Cauldron and spirited away somewhere.”

“They must have gone to Midgard,” Bryce said. “Led by Theia and Pelias—”

Amren held up a hand. “We can hear your myths later, girl. What I want to know”—her eyes sharpened, and it was all Bryce could do to weather the scrutiny—“is why you came here, when you meant to go elsewhere.”

“I’d like to know that, too,” Bryce said, perhaps a bit more boldly than could be deemed wise. “Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to get out of your hair immediately.”

“To go to … Hel,” Rhysand said neutrally. “To find this Prince Aidas.”