He rubbed at his chest, as if it’d erase the tightness.

  He’d known precisely why he’d disobeyed Sabine’s order this spring when Bryce had screamed for help. The sound of her pleading had been unbearable. And when she’d mentioned children at risk, something had exploded in his brain. He had no regrets about what he’d done.

  But could he endure its consequences? Not the beating—he could weather that shit any day. But being here, alone, adrift … He hadn’t felt like this since Connor and the others had died. Since he’d walked away from his sunball team and stopped answering their calls.

  He had no idea what the Hel he’d do now. Perhaps the answer wasn’t some big, life-altering thing. Maybe it could be as simple as putting one foot in front of the other.

  That’s how you wound up following someone like Amelie, a voice that sounded an awful lot like Connor’s growled. Make better choices this time, pup. Assess. Decide what you want.

  But for now … one foot in front of the other. He could do that. If just for today.

  Ithan walked to the door and pulled the leash off the hook on the wall beside it. “Want a walk?” he asked Syrinx. The beast rolled onto his side, as if saying, Belly rub, please.

  Ithan slung the leash back onto its hook. “You got it, bud.”

  “Approachable Asshole, huh?”

  Bryce leaned against the bars of the immaculate cell beneath the Comitium, frowning at where Hunt sat on a steel-framed cot, head hanging. He straightened at her words, gray wings tucking in. His face— Bryce stiffened. “What the fuck, Hunt?”

  Black eye, swollen lip, cuts along his temple, his hairline … “I’m fine,” he grumbled, even though he looked as bad as Ithan. “Who called you?”

  “Your new boss—she filled me in. She sounds nice, by the way.” Bryce pressed her face through the bars. “Definitely nice, since she hasn’t kicked your ass to the curb yet.”

  “She did put me in this cell.”

  “Isaiah put you in the cell.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Don’t whatever me.” Gods, she sounded like her mother.

  His voice sharpened. “I’ll see you at home. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “And you shouldn’t have gotten into a stupid fight, but here you are.”

  Lightning forked down his wings. “Go home.”

  Was he—was he really pissed she was here? She snorted. “Were you intentionally trying to sabotage yourself today?”

  Hunt shot to his feet, then winced at whatever pain it summoned in his battered body. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

  A deep male voice answered, “Because you’re a stupid bastard.”

  Bryce grimaced. She’d forgotten about Pollux.

  Hunt snarled, “I don’t want to hear your fucking voice.”

  “Get used to it,” said another male voice from the elevator bay at the end of the white hall.

  Bryce found a tall, lean angel approaching with a natural elegance. Not beautiful, not in the way that Hunt and Pollux and Isaiah were, but … striking. Intense and focused.

  Baxian Argos, the Helhound. An angel with the rare ability to shift into the form that had given him his nickname.

  Hunt had told her about him, too. Baxian hadn’t ever tortured Hunt or others, as far as she knew—but he’d done plenty of awful things in Sandriel’s name. He’d been her chief spy-master and tracker.

  Baxian bared his teeth in a fierce smile. Hunt bristled.

  Like Hel would these males make her back down.

  Pollux crooned from his cell, his pretty-boy face as battered as Hunt’s, “Why don’t you come a little closer, Bryce Quinlan?”

  Hunt growled. “Don’t talk to her.”

  Bryce snapped, “Spare me the protective alphahole act.” Before Hunt could reply, she’d stalked over to Pollux’s cell.

  Pollux made a show of looking her over from head to stilettos. “I thought your kind usually worked the night shift.”

  Bryce snickered. “Any other outdated jabs to throw my way?” At Pollux’s silence, Bryce said, “Sex work is a respectable profession in Crescent City. It’s not my fault Pangera hasn’t caught up with modern times.”

  Pollux brimmed with malice. “Micah should have killed you and been done with it.”

  She let her eyes glow—let him see that she knew all he’d done to Hunt, how much she detested him. “That’s the best you can come up with? I thought the Hammer was supposed to be some kind of sadistic badass.”

  “And I thought half-breed whores were supposed to keep their mouths closed. Fortunately, I know the perfect thing to shove in that trap of yours to shut you up.”

  Bryce winked saucily. “Careful. I use teeth.” Hunt coughed, and Bryce leaned forward—close enough that if Pollux extended an arm, his hand could wrap around her throat. Pollux’s eyes flared, noting that fact. Bryce said sweetly, “I don’t know who you pissed off to be sent to this city, but I’m going to make your life a living Hel if you touch him again.”

  Pollux lunged, fingers aiming for her neck.

  She let her power surge, bright enough that Pollux reared back, an arm flung over his eyes. Bryce’s lips quirked to the side. “I thought so.”

  She backed away a few steps, pivoting toward Hunt once more. He cocked an eyebrow, eyes shining beneath the bruises. “Fancy, Quinlan.”

  “I aim to impress.”

  A low laugh whispered behind her, and Bryce found the Helhound now leaning against the wall opposite the cells, beside a large TV.

  “I take it I’ll be seeing more of you than I’d like,” Bryce said.

  Baxian sketched a bow. He wore lightweight black armor made of overlapping plates. It reminded her of a reptilian version of Hunt’s suit. “Maybe you’ll give me a tour.”

  “Keep dreaming,” Hunt muttered.

  The Helhound’s dark eyes gleamed. He turned on his heel and said before entering the elevator, “Glad someone finally put a bullet through Micah’s head.”

  Bryce stared after him in stunned silence. Had he come down here for any reason other than to say that? Hunt whooshed out a breath. Pollux remained pointedly silent in his cell.

  Bryce gripped the bars of Hunt’s cell. “No more fights.”

  “If I say yes, can we go home now?” He gave her a mournful pout almost identical to Syrinx’s begging.

  Bryce suppressed her smile. “Not my call.”

  A fair female voice floated from an intercom in the ceiling. “I’ve seen enough. He’s free to go, Miss Quinlan.” The bars hissed, the door unlocking with a clank.

  Bryce said to the ceiling, “Thank you.”

  Pollux growled from his cell, “And what of me? I didn’t start this fight.” The shithead had balls. Bryce would give him that.

  Celestina answered coolly, “You also didn’t do anything to defuse it.”

  “Forgive me for fighting back while being pummeled by a brute.”

  From the corner of her eye, Bryce could have sworn Hunt was grinning wickedly.

  The Governor said, voice taking on a no-bullshit sharpness, “We shall discuss this later.” Pollux was wise enough not to snap a reply. The Archangel went on, “Keep Athalar in line, Miss Quinlan.”

  Bryce waved at the camera mounted beside the TV. When Celestina didn’t answer, Bryce stepped back to allow Hunt out of the cell. He limped toward her, badly enough that she looped her arm around his waist as they aimed for the elevator.

  Pollux sneered from his cell, “You two mongrels deserve each other.”

  Bryce blew him a kiss.

  11

  Tharion needed a new job.

  Honestly, even years into the position, he had no idea how he’d wound up in charge of the River Queen’s intelligence. His schoolmates probably laughed every time his name came up: a thoroughly average, if not lazy, student, he’d gotten his passing grades mostly through charming his teachers. He had little interest in history or politics or foreign languages, and his favorite subject in school had been lunch.

  Maybe that had primed him. People were far more inclined to talk over food. Though anytime he’d tortured an enemy, he’d puked his guts up afterward. Fortunately, he’d learned that a cold beer, some mirthroot, and a few rounds of poker usually got him what he needed.

  And this: research.

  Normally, he’d tap one of his analysts to pore over his current project, but the River Queen wanted this kept secret. As he sat before the computer in his office, all it took was a few keystrokes to access what he wanted: Sofie Renast’s email account.

  Declan Emmet had set up the system for him: capable of hacking into any non-imperial email within moments. Emmet had charged him an arm and a fin for it, but it had proved more than useful. The first time Tharion had used it had been to help track down his sister’s murderer.

  The sick fuck had emailed himself photos of his victims. Even what Tharion had done to him afterward hadn’t erased the image seared into his brain of his sister’s brutalized body.

  Tharion swallowed, looking toward the wall of glass that opened into clear cobalt waters. An otter shot past, yellow vest blazingly bright in the river water, a sealed tube clenched between his little fangs.

  A creature of both worlds. Some of the messenger otters dwelled here, in the Blue Court deep beneath the Istros, a small metropolis both exposed and sealed off from the water around them. Other otters lived Above, in the bustle and chaos of Crescent City proper.

  Tharion couldn’t ever move Above, he reminded himself. His duties required him here, at the River Queen’s beck and call. Tharion peered at his bare feet, digging them into the cream shag carpet beneath his desk. He’d been in human form for nearly a day now. He’d have to enter the water soon or risk losing his fins.

  His parents found it odd that he’d chosen to live in one of the dry glass-and-metal buildings anchored into a sprawling platform at the bottom of the river, and not near them in the network of underwater caves that doubled as apartments for the mer. But Tharion liked TV. Liked eating food that wasn’t soggy at best, cold and wet at worst. He liked sleeping in a warm bed, sprawled over the covers and pillows, and not tucked into a seaweed hammock swinging in the currents. And since living on land wasn’t an option, this underwater building had become his best bet.

  The computer pinged, and Tharion pivoted back to the screen. His office was in one of the glass-domed bubbles that made up the Blue Court Investigative Unit’s headquarters—the River Queen had only allowed their construction because computers had to stay dry.

  Tharion himself had been forced to explain that simple fact.

  His queen was almighty, beautiful, and wise—and, like so many of the older Vanir, had no idea how modern technology worked. Her daughter, at least, had adapted better. Tharion had been instructed to show her how to use a computer. Which was how he’d wound up here.

  Well, not here in this office. But in this place. In his current life.

  Tharion skimmed through Sofie Renast’s email archive. Evidence of a normal existence: emails with friends about sports or TV or an upcoming party; emails from parents asking that she pick up groceries on her way home from school; emails from her little brother. Emile.

  Those were the ones that he combed through the most carefully. Maybe he’d get lucky and there’d be some hint in here about where Sofie was headed.

  On and on, Tharion read, keeping an eye on the clock. He had to get in the water soon, but … He kept reading. Hunting for any clue or hint of where Sofie and her brother might have gone. He came up empty.

  Tharion finished Sofie’s inbox, checked the junk folder, and then finally the trash. It was mostly empty. He clicked open her sent folder, and groaned at the tally. But he began reading again. Click after click after click.

  His phone chimed with an alert: thirty minutes until he needed to get into the water. He could reach the air lock in five minutes, if he walked fast. He could get through another few emails before then. Click, click, click. Tharion’s phone chimed again. Ten minutes.

  But he’d halted on an email dated three years ago. It was so simple, so nonsensical that it stood out.

  Subject: Re: Dusk’s Truth

  The subject line was weird. But the body of her email was even weirder.

  Working on gaining access. Will take time.

  That was it.

  Tharion scanned downward, toward the original message that Sofie had replied to. It had been sent two weeks before her reply.

  From: BansheeFan56

  Subject: Dusk’s Truth

  Have you gotten inside yet? I want to know the full story.

  Tharion scratched his head, opened another window, and searched for Dusk’s Truth.

  Nothing. No record of a movie or book or TV show. He did a search on the email system for the sender’s name: BansheeFan56.

  Another half-deleted chain. This one originating from BansheeFan56.

  Subject: Project Thurr

  Could be useful to you. Read it.

  Sofie had replied: Just did. I think it’s a long shot. And the Six will kill me for it.

  He had a good feeling he knew who “the Six” referred to: the Asteri. But when Tharion searched online for Project Thurr, he found nothing. Only news reports on archaeological digs or art gallery exhibits featuring the ancient demigod. Interesting.

  There was one other email—in the drafts folder.

  BansheeFan56 had written: When you find him, lie low in the place I told you about—where the weary souls find relief from their suffering in Lunathion. It’s secure.

  A rendezvous spot? Tharion scanned what Sofie had started to reply, but never sent.

  Thank you. I’ll try to pass along the info to my

  She’d never finished it. There were any number of ways that sentence could have ended. But Sofie must have needed a place where no one would think to look for her and her brother. If Sofie Renast had indeed survived the Hind, she might well have come here, to this very city, with the promise of a safe place to hide.

  But this stuff about Project Thurr and Dusk’s Truth … He tucked those tidbits away for later.

  Tharion opened a search field within Declan’s program and typed in the sender’s address. He started as the result came in.

  Danika Fendyr.

  Tharion burst from his office, sprinting through the glass corridors that revealed all manner of river life: mer and otters and fish, diving birds and water sprites and the occasional winding sea serpent. He only had three minutes before he had to be in the water.

  Thankfully, the hatch into the pressurization chamber was open when he arrived, and Tharion leapt in, slamming the round door behind him before punching the button beside it.

  He’d barely sealed the door when water flooded his feet, rushing into the chamber with a sigh. Tharion sighed with it, slumping into the rising water and shucking off his pants, his body tingling as fins replaced skin and bone, his legs fusing, rippling with tiger-striped scales.

  He pulled off his shirt, shuddering into the scales that rippled along his arms and halfway up his torso. Talons curled off his fingers as Tharion thrust them into his hair, slicking back the red strands.

  Fucking inconvenient.

  Tharion glanced at the digital clock above the air lock door. He was free to return to human form now, but he liked to wait a good five minutes. Just to make sure the transformation had been marked by the strange magic that guided the mer. It didn’t matter that he could summon water from thin air—the shift only counted if he submerged completely in the currents of wild magic.

  Danika Fendyr had known Sofie Renast. Had swapped emails during a six-month window leading up to Danika’s death, all relating to something about Dusk’s Truth and this Project Thurr, except that one detailing a secure spot.

  But had Danika Fendyr known Emile as well? Had Emile been the person Sofie had meant to pass along the safe location info to? It was a stretch, but from what the River Queen had told him, everything Sofie had done before her death had been for her brother. Why wouldn’t he be the person she was eager to hide, should she ever get him free from Kavalla? The trouble now was finding them somewhere in this city. Where the weary souls find relief from their suffering, apparently. Whatever that meant.

  Tharion waited until five minutes had passed, then reached up with a muscled arm to hit the release button beside the air lock door. Water drained out, clearing the chamber, and Tharion remained seated, staring at his fins, waving idly in the air.

  He willed the change, and light shimmered along his legs, pain lancing down them as his fin split in two, revealing his naked body.

  His pants were soaked, but Tharion didn’t particularly care as he shoved his legs back into them. At least he hadn’t been wearing shoes. He’d lost countless pairs thanks to close calls like this over the years.

  With a groan, he eased to his feet and opened the door once more. He donned one of the navy windbreakers hanging from the wall for warmth, BCIU written in yellow print on the back. Blue Court Investigative Unit. It was technically part of Lunathion’s Auxiliary, but the River Queen liked to think of her realm as a separate entity.

  He checked his phone as he stalked down the hall toward his office, skimming the field reports that had come in. He went still at one of them. Maybe Ogenas was looking out for him.

  A kingfisher shifter had called in a report three hours ago—out in the Nelthian Marshes. A small, abandoned boat. Nothing unusual, but its registration had snagged his eye. It had made berth in Pangera. The rest of the report had Tharion hurrying to his office.

  An adolescent-sized life vest with Bodegraven written on its back had been found in the boat. No one remained on board, but a scent lingered. Human, male, young.

  What were the odds that a life jacket from the same ship Sofie Renast’s brother had been on had appeared on a wholly different boat, near the very city the emails between her and Danika had indicated was safe to hide in?

  Emile Renast had to have been on that boat. The question was: Did he have reason to suspect that his sister had survived the Hind? Were they currently en route to be reunited? Tharion had a few guesses for where Danika’s cryptic instructions might imply—none of them good. He might have no idea what his queen wanted with either Sofie or Emile, enough that she’d wanted the former alive or dead, but he had little choice in following this lead.