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

Silence had fallen as Ithan stared at the fist and claws he’d punched clean through Sigrid’s throat. His hand was the only thing keeping her body upright as her eyes went vacant—

“Remove your fist,” the Viper Queen had commanded.

Ithan’s face had gone dead, and the wolf snatched his claws and hand out of Sigrid’s throat.

It was the final indignity. The removal of his hand and claws severed what remained of her thin neck.

And as he yanked his bloody fist back, as her body collapsed to the ring floor … Sigrid’s head rolled away.

Ithan had just stared at what he’d done. And Tharion hadn’t been able to find the words to say that they’d all seen what Holstrom had intended, all knew he hadn’t meant to kill her.

The Viper Queen’s assassins stood at the alley door, holding it open. As promised, a black sedan had been parked there.

Tharion took one step—only one—out into the night before the sweet, beckoning scent of the Istros hit him. Every muscle and instinct in his body came alive, begging him to go to the water, to submerge himself in its wildness and magic, to shed legs in favor of fins, to let the river ripple through his gills, into his very blood—

Tharion shut down the demand, the longing. Kept moving toward the sedan, one foot after another.

Still silent, they filed into the car, Flynn taking the wheel, Dec sliding into the passenger seat. Tharion sat in the back beside the male who’d taken on this unholy burden for him.

“You, ah …,” Flynn began as he started the car and peered over his shoulder to reverse out of the alley. “You all right, Holstrom?”

Ithan said nothing.

Declan announced quietly, looking down at his phone, “Marc’s handling our family stuff. Making sure everyone’s safe.”

Small fucking consolation.

Three bright lights slammed into the windshield, and they all jumped. But—the sprites. They’d forgotten the sprites.

Flynn rolled down his window and Rithi, Sasa, and Malana sped in. Sasa breathed, “Go, go, go,” and Flynn didn’t waste time questioning as they reversed out of the alley at full speed. In a smooth shift, he pulled onto a main street and switched into drive—and then they were zooming off through the labyrinth of streets Tharion had thought he’d never see again.

“What’s happening?” Declan asked the sprites, who had nestled into the drink holders up front.

“We burned it,” Sasa said, a deep orange.

“Burned what?” Flynn demanded.

Tharion could only gape as Malana pointed through the rear window, to where flames were now licking the night sky above the Meat Market.

“She’ll kill you.” Tharion’s voice was hoarse. Like he’d been screaming. Maybe he had been. He didn’t know.

“She’ll have to find us to do that,” said Rithi grimly, then turned to Ithan. “She engineered that perfectly. She used you.”

“I played right into her hands.” Ithan’s voice was soft, broken.

No one spoke. No one seemed inclined to. So Tharion figured he might as well ask, “How so?”

Ithan shook his head and looked out the window, face blank, still blood-splattered. He said nothing more.

They drove on through the city, somehow unchanged despite what had just occurred. Drove all the way to the Rose Gate and the Eastern Road beyond it. To the coast, and the ship that would be waiting for them.

And all the consequences that would follow.



* * *



Bryce backed away as Azriel advanced a step toward the crystal coffin, Truth-Teller now glowing with black light in his left hand.

Bryce had seen the gold-clad creature who now slumbered in the coffin before, she realized: when Silene had related her mother’s story. This female before them … she was the Asteri who’d ruled here. Theia’s mistress.

The Asteri’s blue eyes lowered to the dagger. “You dare draw a weapon before me? Against those who crafted you, soldier, from night and pain?”

“You are no creator of mine,” Azriel said coldly. The Starsword gleamed in his other hand. If they bothered him, if they called to him, he didn’t let on. Neither hand so much as twitched.

The Asteri’s eyes flared with recognition at the long blade. “Did Fionn send you, then? To slay me in my sleep? Or was it that traitor Enalius? I see that you bear his dagger—as his emissary? Or his assassin?”

The words must have meant something to Azriel. The warrior let out a small noise of shock.

“Fionn indeed sent us to finish you off,” Nesta lied with impressive menace. “But it looks like now we’ll have the pleasure of killing you awake.”

The Asteri smiled again. “You’ll have to open this sarcophagus to get me.”

Bryce smiled back at her, all teeth. “Fionn sent them. But Theia sent me.”

Blue fire simmered in the creature’s eyes. “That traitorous bitch will be dealt with after I handle you.”

Azriel started to move along the coffin. Assessing the best way to attack the Asteri, no doubt. “Unfortunately for you,” Bryce taunted, “Theia’s been dead for fifteen thousand years. So have the rest of your buddies. Your people are little more than a half-forgotten myth in this world.”

For a heartbeat, it was the creature’s turn to blink. As if a memory had cleared, she said, more to herself than them, “Theia was so charming that day. Told me I looked tired, and to replenish myself in the crystal here, above the well. But she sealed me within instead. To let me starve to death over the eons.” Teeth, white as snow, flashed. “And in my dreams, she danced upon the stones above me. Danced upon my grave while I starved beneath her feet.”