Blood for life, blood for death—it was summoning salt infused with the blood from a laboring mother’s sex and blood from a dying male’s throat. The two great transitions of a soul in and out of this world. But to use it here … “You can’t mean to add that to their water,” Bryce said to the Astronomer.

  The old male hobbled back down the ramp. “Their tanks already contain white salts. The bloodsalt will merely pinpoint their search.”

  Tharion muttered to Bryce, “You might be right about this place.”

  “Now you agree with me?” she whisper-yelled as the Astronomer sprinkled the red salt into the three tanks.

  The water clouded, and then turned rust colored. Like the mystics were now submerged in blood.

  Ithan murmured, “This isn’t right.”

  “Then let’s take our money and go,” she urged.

  But the Astronomer returned and Tharion asked, “Is it safe for the mystics to contact the resting dead?”

  The Astronomer typed on the pad mounted on a gold-plated lectern fashioned after an exploding star, then hit a black button on a panel nearby. “Oh yes. They do love to talk. Have nothing else to do with their time.” He shot Bryce a sharp glare, gray eyes gleaming like cold knives. “As for your money … there is a no-refunds policy. Says so right there on the wall. You might as well stay to hear your answer.”

  Before Bryce could respond, the floor below slid away, leaving the mystics in their tubs. And creating a considerable gap between the base of the ramp and the entryway.

  The tubs rested atop narrow columns, rising from a sublevel lined with more books and another walkway descending down, down—to a black pit in the center of the floor. And filling the sublevel, layer after layer of darkness revealed itself, each one blacker than the last.

  Seven of them. One for each level of Hel.

  “From the highest stars to the Pit itself.” The Astronomer sighed, and typed again into the pad. “Their search may take a while, even with the bloodsalt.”

  Bryce sized up the gap between the base of the ramp and the entryway. Could she jump it? Ithan definitely could—Tharion, too.

  She found Tharion watching her with crossed arms. “Just enjoy the show, Legs.”

  She scowled. “I think you’ve lost the right to call me that after this.”

  Ithan said quietly, face pained, “Bryce. I know this sucks. This is … This is not okay.” His voice turned hoarse. “But if it’s the only way to learn what’s going on with Connor …”

  She opened her mouth to snap that Connor would have condemned this place and told Ithan to find some other way, but … she could see him. Connor. Shining right there in Ithan’s face, in his eyes—the same hue—and in those broad shoulders.

  Her throat ached.

  What line wouldn’t she cross to help Connor and the Pack of Devils? They would have done the same for her. Connor might have condemned this place, but if their positions were reversed …

  Tharion jerked his chin to the exit far below. “Go ahead, Princess. We’ll see you later.”

  “Fuck you,” Bryce snapped. She braced her feet apart. “Let’s get this over with.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Ithan’s shoulders sag. In relief or shame, she didn’t know.

  The old male cut in, as if he hadn’t heard a word of their hissed argument. “Most astronomers and mystics have been put out of business these days, you know. Thanks to fancy tech. And self-righteous busybodies like you,” he spat toward Bryce. She snarled at him, the sound more primal Fae than she liked, but he waved that hateful, ring-encrusted hand toward the mystics in their pools. “They were the original interweb. Any answer you wish to know, they can find it, without having to wade through the slog of nonsense out there.”

  The female mystic twitched, dark hair floating around her in the suspension pool, black tendrils among the red salt. Dried salt water crusted the slate rim of the tub, as if she’d thrashed earlier and soaked the stones. Salt for buoyancy—and to protect them from the demons and beings they spied on or conversed with. But would those protections fade with the bloodsalt in the water?

  The mystic who was both male and female jolted, their long limbs flailing.

  “Oh,” the Astronomer observed, scanning the pad. “They’re going far this time. Very far.” He nodded to Bryce. “That was high-quality bloodsalt, you know.”

  “For a hundred marks, it had better be,” Ithan said, but his attention remained on the mystics below, his breathing shallow.

  Another push of a button, and the holographic planets began to shift, becoming smaller as they drifted away. The sun rose into the ceiling, vanishing, and distant stars came into view. Different planets.

  “The mystics made the first star-maps,” the Astronomer said. “They charted more extensively than anyone had before. In the Eternal City, I heard they have a thousand mystics in the palace catacombs, mapping farther and farther into the cosmos. Speaking with creatures we shall never know.”

  Hunt had been in those catacombs—their dungeons, specifically. Had he ever heard a whisper of this?

  Something beeped on the screen and Bryce motioned toward it. “What’s that?”

  “The male is reaching Hel’s orbit.” The Astronomer clicked his tongue. “He’s much faster today. Impressive.”

  “Connor’s soul wound up in Hel?” Horror laced Ithan’s every word.

  Bryce’s throat closed up. It—it wasn’t possible. How would that have even happened? Had she done something with the Gate this spring that had transported his soul over there?

  Silence fell, the temperature dropping with it. She demanded, “Why is it getting colder?”

  “Sometimes their powers manifest the environment they’re encountering.” Before anyone replied, the Astronomer twisted a brass dial. “What do you see, what do you hear?”

  The male twitched again, red water splashing over the edge of the tub and dribbling into the pit beneath. Tharion peered over the iron rail. “His lips are turning blue.”

  “The water is warm.” The Astronomer tutted. “Look.” He pointed to the screen. A graph of rising and falling lines, like sound waves, appeared. “I’ll admit the new tech has some advantages. The old way of transcribing was much harder. I had to reference every single brain wave to find the correlation to the right letter or word. Now the machine just does it for me.”

  I don’t care about brain waves, Bryce thought. Tell me what’s happening with Connor.

  But the Astronomer rambled on, almost absentmindedly, “When you speak, your brain sends a message to your tongue to form the words. This machine reads that message, that signal, and interprets it. Without you needing to say a word.”

  “So it’s a mind reader,” Tharion said, face pale in the lights. Bryce drifted closer to Ithan—the wolf radiated dread.

  “Of a sort,” the Astronomer said. “Right now, it is more of an eavesdropper, listening to the conversation the mystic is having with whoever is on the other end of the line.”

  Tharion asked, hands behind his back as he peered at the machines, “How does it know what the other person is saying?”

  “The mystic is trained to repeat back the words so that we may transcribe them.” The screen began to flash a series of letters—words.

  “Too dark,” the Astronomer read. “It is too dark to see. Only hear.”

  “Can you pinpoint where in Hel your mystic is?” Ithan indicated the holographic levels far below.

  “Not precisely, but judging by the cold, I’d say deep. Perhaps the Chasm itself.”

  Bryce and Ithan swapped glances. His eyes were as wide as her own.

  The Astronomer kept reading. “Hello?” Silence. Nothing but endless silence. “This is very common,” the Astronomer assured them, gesturing them to move closer. Despite herself, despite her objections, Bryce leaned in to read the feed.

  The mystic said, I am searching for the soul of a wolf called Connor Holstrom.

  Someone, something answered.

  No wolves have roamed these lands for eons. No wolf by that name dwells here, living or dead. But what are you?

  Ithan shuddered, swaying a step. With relief, Bryce realized—because that was the dizzying, rushing sensation in her body, too.

  “Strange,” the Astronomer said. “Why were we drawn to Hel if your friend isn’t there?”

  Bryce didn’t want to know. Tried and failed to open her mouth to say they should go.

  I am a mystic, the male said.

  From where?

  A faraway place.

  Why are you here?

  To ask questions. Will you oblige me?

  If I can, mystic, then I shall.

  What is your name?

  A pause. Then, Thanatos.

  Bryce sucked in a sharp breath.

  “The Prince of the Ravine.” Tharion fell back a step.

  Do you know if Connor Holstrom remains in the Bone Quarter of Midgard?

  A long, long pause, the sound waves flatlining. Then—

  Who sent you here?

  A wolf, a mer, and a half-Fae, half-human female.

  How the mystics had known of their presence, Bryce had no idea. Didn’t want to know what sort of perception they possessed while in those isolation tanks.

  Thanatos asked, What are their names?

  I do not know. Will you answer my questions?

  Another long pause. “We need to stop this.” Ithan nodded toward the male’s tub. Ice was beginning to inch over the water.

  They are listening, are they?

  Yes.

  Again, silence.

  And then the demon prince said, Let me see them. Let them see me.

  The mystic’s eyes flew open in the tank below.

  39

  A shuddering inhale was the only sign of discomfort Bryce would allow herself as she stared at the hologram displayed in the center of the orrery. The male now contained inside its dark border.

  Thanatos’s tightly curled black hair was cropped close to his head, displaying the handsome, unsmiling face above the powerful body bedecked in dark, ornate armor. He gazed right at Bryce. As if he could indeed see through the mystic’s eyes.

  The Astronomer fell back a step, murmuring a prayer to Luna.

  The feed kept going, in time to Thanatos’s moving mouth. Hunger filled the demon’s expression.

  I can smell the starlight on you.

  The Prince of the Ravine knew her. Somehow.

  The Astronomer took another step back, then another, until he was pressed against the wall behind him, shaking in terror.

  Thanatos’s dark eyes pierced to her soul. You’re the one my brothers speak about.

  Ithan and Tharion glanced between her and the demon, hands within easy reach of their weapons—little as they could do.

  “I came to ask about a friend’s soul. I don’t know why I’m talking to you,” Bryce said, and added a bit quietly, “Your Highness.”

  I am a Prince of Death. Souls bow to me.

  This male had none of Aidas’s slickness or what Hunt had told her of Apollion’s smug arrogance. Nothing that indicated mercy or humor.

  Ithan blurted, teeth clattering with the cold, “Can you tell if Connor Holstrom’s soul somehow got lost in Hel?”

  Thanatos frowned at his knee-high boots, like he could see all the way down to the Pit levels below.

  The wolf is your brother, I take it, he said to Ithan.

  “Yes.” Ithan’s throat bobbed.

  His soul is not in Hel. He is … His attention snapped again to Bryce. Ripped away skin and bone to the being beneath. You slew one of my creations. My beloved pet, kept for so long on your side of the Crossing.

  Bryce managed to ask, breath clouding in front of her, “You mean the Reapers? Or the Shepherd?” A shepherd of souls—for a prince who peddled them. “The Under-King said you abandoned it after the First Wars.”

  Abandoned, or intentionally planted?

  Great. Fantastic.

  “I had no interest in being its lunch,” Bryce said.

  Thanatos’s eyes flared. You cost me a key link to Midgard. The Shepherd reported faithfully to me on all it heard in the Bone Quarter. The souls of the dead talk freely of their world.

  “Boo-hoo.”

  You mock a Prince of Hel?

  “I just want answers.” And to get the fuck out of here.

  Thanatos studied her again—as if he had all the time in the universe. Then he said, I will give them to you only out of respect for a warrior capable of slaying one of my creations. Shall I meet you on the battlefield, however, I will take vengeance for the Shepherd’s death.

  Bryce’s mouth dried out. “It’s a date.”

  Connor Holstrom remains in the Bone Quarter. My Shepherd observed him on its rounds the night before you slew it. Unless … Ah, I see now. His eyes went distant. An order was dispatched from the dark. He shall be left alone with the others until the usual amount of time has passed.

  “Who gave the order?” Ithan demanded.

  It is not clear.

  Bryce demanded, “Is there a way to help souls like Connor?” Whether he was ushered through the Dead Gate tomorrow or in five hundred years, it was a horrible fate.

  Only the Asteri would know.

  Tharion—the asshole—cut in, “Can you determine the location of a human boy named Emile Renast in Lunathion?”

  Bryce stiffened. If Apollion was actually seeking Emile … had they just dragged another Prince of Hel into the hunt?

  “That is not how this works,” the Astronomer hissed from where he still cowered by the wall.

  I do not know this name or person.

  Thank the gods. And thank the gods the prince’s words held no hint of awareness about what Emile was, or what Apollion might want from him.

  Tharion drawled, “Know anyone who might?”

  No. Those are matters of your world.

  Bryce tried and failed to calm her racing heartbeat. At least Connor remained in the Bone Quarter, and they’d gotten a cease-fire.

  “Kid’s a thunderbird,” Tharion said. “Ring any bells?”

  “Tharion,” Ithan warned, apparently on the same page as Bryce.

  I thought the Asteri destroyed that threat long ago.

  Bryce cleared her throat. “Maybe,” she hedged. “Why were they a threat?”

  I grow tired of these questions. I shall feast.

  The room plunged into blackness.

  The Astronomer whispered, “Luna guard me, your bow bright against the darkness, your arrows like silver fire shooting into Hel—”

  Bryce lifted a hand wreathed in starlight, casting the room in silver. In the space where Thanatos’s hologram had been, only a black pit remained.

  The male mystic jerked violently, submerging and arching upward. Red liquid splashed. The other two lay still as death. The machine began blaring and beeping, and the Astronomer halted his praying to rush to the controls. “He has snared him,” the male gasped, hands shaking.

  Bryce flared her light brighter as the feed began running again.

  It has been a long while since a mortal fly buzzed all the way down to Hel. I will taste this one’s soul, as I once sipped from them like fine wine.

  Frost spread over the floor. The male mystic arched again, thin arms flailing, chest rising and falling at a rapid pace.

  “Cut him loose!” Bryce barked.

  Please, the mystic begged.

  How sad and lonely and desperate you are. You taste of rainwater.

  Please, please.

  A little more. Just a taste.

  The Astronomer began typing. Alarms wailed.

  “What’s happening?” Tharion shouted. Down below, the ice crept over the other two mystics in their tubs.

  The prince continued, You have gone too deep. I think I shall keep you.

  The male thrashed, sending waves of red water cascading into the void below.

  “Turn off the machines,” Ithan ordered.

  “I cannot—not without the proper extraction. His mind might shatter.”

  Bryce protested, “He’s fucked if you don’t.”

  The Prince of the Ravine said, I do not care for my brothers’ agenda. I do not heed their rules and restraints and illusions of civilization. I shall taste all of you like this—you and your masters—once the door between our worlds is again open. Starting with you, Starborn.

  Ice exploded across the walls, crusting over the submerged mystics. The machines groaned, planets flickering, and then—

  Every firstlight and piece of tech went out. Even Bryce’s starlight vanished. Bryce swore. “What—”

  The Astronomer panted in the darkness. Buttons clacked hollowly. “Their respirators—”

  Bryce yanked out her phone and fumbled for its light. It was dead. Another curse from Tharion, and she knew his was, too. Every muscle and tendon in her body went taut.

  Shimmering, golden light glowed from the Astronomer’s upraised hand. The fire sprites trapped in his rings simmered steadily.

  Apparently, it was all Ithan needed to see by as he launched himself over the rail and aimed for the male’s iced-over tub. He landed gracefully, balancing his feet on either side. A pound of his fist had the ice cracking.

  The male was convulsing, no doubt drowning without a functioning respirator. Ithan hauled him up, ripping the mask from his face. A long feeding tube followed. The male gagged and spasmed, but Ithan propped him over the rim, lest he slide back under.

  Leaping with that athletic grace, Ithan reached the tub in the middle, freeing the mystic within. Then on to the female in the third.

  The Astronomer was shrieking, but it seemed Ithan barely heard the words. The three mystics shook, soft cries trembling from their blue mouths. Bryce shook with them, and Tharion put a hand on her back.

  Something groaned below, and the lights sputtered back on. Metal whined. The floor began to rise, pulling toward the tubs again. The sun fixture descended from the ceiling as the Astronomer hobbled down the walkway, cursing.

  “You had no right to pull them out, no right—”

  “They would have drowned!” Bryce launched into motion, storming after the male. Tharion stalked a step behind her.

  The female stirred as the slate floor locked into place around the tubs. On reed-thin arms, she raised up her chest, blinking blearily at Ithan, then the room.