So Hunt saw everything. Saw the endlessly slow movements of everyone in the room, the gaping shock that rippled, Sandriel’s outrage, Pollux’s white-faced disbelief, Ruhn’s terror—

  The Godslayer bullet was still burrowing through Micah’s skull. Still twisting through bone and brain matter, dragging time in its wake.

  Then Bryce stood at the office’s blown-out window. A sword in both hands.

  Danika’s sword—she must have left it in the gallery on her last day alive. And Bryce must have stashed it in Jesiba’s office, where it had stayed hidden for two years. Hunt saw every minute expression on Sabine’s face, the widening of her pupils, the flow of her corn-silk hair as she reeled at the sight of the missing heirloom—

  Bryce leapt from the window and into the showroom below. Hunt saw each movement of her body, arcing as she raised the sword above her head, then brought it back down as she fell.

  He could have sworn the ancient steel cut the very air itself. And then it cut through Micah.

  Sliced his head in two as Bryce drove it through, the sword cleaving a path into his body. Peeling him apart. Only Danika’s sword would do for this task.

  Hunt savored these final moments of her life, before the synth took over. Was this the first sign of it—this madness, this pure, frenzied rage?

  Bryce. His Bryce. His friend and…everything they had that was more than that. She was his and he was hers, and he should have told her that, should have told her in the Comitium lobby that she was the only person who mattered, who would ever matter to him, and he’d find her again, even if it took him a thousand years, he’d find her and do everything Sandriel had mocked him about.

  Bryce still leapt, still kept cutting through Micah’s body. His blood rained upward.

  In normal time, it would have splattered. But in this warped existence, the Archangel’s blood rose like ruby bubbles, showering Bryce’s face, filling her screaming mouth.

  In this warped existence, he could see the synth heal every sliced, bruised place on Bryce as she cut her way down through Micah. Cut him in half.

  She landed on the green carpet. Hunt expected to hear bone cracking. But her calf was wholly healed. The last gift of the synth before it destroyed her. Yet in her eyes…he saw no haze of insanity, of self-destructive frenzy. Only cold, glittering vengeance.

  The two halves of Micah’s body fell away from each other and Bryce moved again. Another swipe. Across his torso. And then another to his head.

  The red alarm lights were still blaring, but there was no mistaking the blood on Bryce. The white shirt that was now crimson. Her eyes remained clear, though. Still the synth did not take control.

  Hypaxia murmured, “The antidote is working. It’s working on her.”

  Hunt swayed then. He said to the witch, “I thought you were only sending over the venom.”

  Hypaxia didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “I figured out how to stabilize the venom without needing to be present, and—I sent the antidote to her instead. Just…just in case.”

  And they’d watched Bryce down it like a bottle of whiskey.

  It had taken almost three minutes for the antidote to wholly destroy the synth in Hypaxia’s clinic. Neither Hunt nor the witch-queen took their eyes off Bryce long enough to count the minutes until the synth had vanished from her body entirely.

  Bryce walked calmly to the hidden supply closet. Pulled out a red plastic container. And dumped the entire gallon of gasoline on the Governor’s dismembered corpse.

  “Holy fuck,” Ruhn whispered, over and over. “Holy fuck.”

  The rest of the room didn’t so much as breathe too loudly. Even Sandriel had no words as Bryce grabbed a pack of matches from a drawer in her desk.

  She struck one, and tossed it onto the Governor’s body.

  Flames erupted. The fireproofing enchantments on the art around her shimmered.

  There would be no chance of salvation. Of healing. Not for Micah. Not after what he had done to Danika Fendyr. To the Pack of Devils. And Lehabah.

  Bryce stared at the fire, her face still splattered with the Archangel’s blood. And finally, she lifted her eyes. Right to the camera. To the world watching.

  Vengeance incarnate. Wrath’s bruised heart. She would bow for no one. Hunt’s lightning sang at the sight of that brutal, beautiful face.

  Time sped up, the flames devouring Micah’s body, crisping his wings to cinders. They spat him out as ashes.

  Sirens wailed outside the gallery as the Auxiliary pulled up at last.

  Bryce slammed the front door shut as the first of the Fae units and wolf packs appeared.

  No one, not even Sandriel, spoke a word as Bryce took out the vacuum from the supply closet. And erased the last trace of Micah from the world.

  82

  A gas explosion, she told the Aux through the intercom, who apparently hadn’t been informed of the details by their superiors. She was fine. Just a private mess to deal with.

  No mention of the Archangel. Of the ashes she’d vacuumed, then dumped in the bin out back.

  She’d gone up to Jesiba’s office afterward, to hold Syrinx, stroking his fur, kissing his still-damp head, whispering repeatedly, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  He’d eventually fallen asleep in her lap, and when she’d assured herself that his breathing was unlabored, she’d finally pulled her phone from the pocket in the back of her leggings.

  She had seven missed calls, all from Jesiba. And a string of messages. She barely comprehended the earlier ones, but the one that had arrived a minute ago said, Tell me that you are all right.

  Her fingers were distant, her blood pounded in her ears. But she wrote back, Fine. Did you see what happened?

  Jesiba’s reply came a moment later.

  Yes. The entire thing. Then the sorceress added, Everyone at the Summit did.

  Bryce just wrote back, Good.

  She put her phone on silent, tucking it back in her pocket, and ventured down to the watery ruin of the archives.

  There was no trace of Lehabah in the mostly submerged library. Not even a smudge of ash.

  The nøkk’s corpse lay sprawled on the mezzanine, its dried-out skin flaking away, one clawed hand still gripping the iron bars of the balcony rail.

  Jesiba had enough spells on the library that the books and the small tanks and terrariums had been shielded from the wave, though their occupants were near-frantic, but the building itself…

  The silence roared around her.

  Lehabah was gone. There was no voice at her shoulder, grousing about the mess.

  And Danika…She tucked away the truth Micah had revealed. The Horn on her back, healed and functional again. She felt no different—wouldn’t have known it was awake were it not for the horrific blast the Archangel had unleashed. At least a portal hadn’t opened. At least she had that.

  She knew the world was coming. It would arrive on her doorstep soon.

  And she might very well burn for what she’d just done.

  So Bryce trudged back upstairs. Her leg was healed. Every ache was gone; the synth was cleansed from her system—

  Bryce puked into the trash can beside her desk. The venom in the antidote had burned as fiercely as it had gone down, but she didn’t stop. Not until there was nothing left but spittle.

  She should call someone. Anyone.

  Still, the doorbell did not ring. No one came to punish her for what she’d done. Syrinx was still sleeping, curled into a tight ball. Bryce crossed the gallery and opened the door for the world.

  It was then that she heard the screaming. She grabbed Syrinx and ran toward it.

  And when she arrived, she realized why no one had come for her, or for the Horn inked in her flesh.

  They had far bigger problems to deal with.

  * * *

  Chaos reigned at the Summit. The Asterian Guard had flown off, presumably to get instructions from their masters, and Sandriel just gaped at the feed that had shown Bryce Quinlan casually vacuuming up the ashes of a Governor as if she’d spilled chips on the carpet.

  She was distracted enough that Hunt was able to finally move. He slid into the empty seat beside Ruhn and Flynn. His voice was low. “This just went from bad to worse.”

  Indeed, the Autumn King had Declan Emmet and two other techs on six different computers, monitoring everything from the gallery to the news to the movements of the Aux through the city. Tristan Flynn was again on his phone, arguing with someone in the Fae command post.

  Ruhn rubbed his face. “They’ll kill her for this.”

  For murdering a Governor. For proving a sprite and a half-human woman could take on a Governor and win. It was absurd. As likely as a minnow slaying a shark.

  Sabine still stared at the screens, unseeing as the ancient Prime, currently dozing in his chair beside her. A tired, weary wolf ready for his last slumber. Amelie Ravenscroft, still pale and shaky, handed Sabine a glass of water. The future Prime ignored it.

  Across the room, Sandriel rose, a phone to her ear. She looked at none of them as she ascended the steps out of the pit and left, her triarii falling into rank around her, Pollux already mastering himself enough to recover his swagger.

  Hunt’s stomach churned as he wondered if Sandriel was moments away from being crowned Archangel of Valbara. Pollux was grinning widely enough to confirm the possibility. Fuck.

  Ruhn glanced at Hunt. “We need to figure out a plan, Athalar.”

  For Bryce. To somehow shield her from the fallout of this. If such a thing were even possible. If the Asteri weren’t already moving against her, already telling Sandriel what to do. To eliminate the threat Bryce had just made herself into, even without the Horn inked in her back.

  At least Micah’s experiment had failed. At least they had that.

  Ruhn said again, more to himself, “They’ll kill her for this.”

  Queen Hypaxia took a seat at Hunt’s other side, giving him a warning look as she held up a key. She fitted it into Hunt’s manacles and the gorsian stones thumped to the table. “I believe they have bigger issues at hand,” she said, gesturing to the city cameras Declan had pulled up.

  Quiet rippled through the conference room.

  “Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Ruhn said.

  Micah’s experiment with the Horn hadn’t failed at all.

  83

  Bryce took one look at the Heart Gate in the Old Square and sprinted home, Syrinx in her arms.

  Micah had indeed wielded the Horn successfully. And it had opened a portal right through the mouth of the Heart Gate, drawing upon the magic in its quartz walls. Bryce had taken one look at what sailed out of the void suspended in the Heart Gate and knew Micah had not opened a portal to unknown worlds, as he’d intended. This one went straight to Hel.

  People screamed as winged, scaled demons soared out of the Gate—demons from the Pit itself.

  At her building, she yelled at Marrin to get into the basement, along with any tenants he could bring with him. And to call his family, his friends, and warn them to get somewhere secure—the bomb shelters, if they could—and hunker down with whatever weapons were available.

  She left Syrinx in the apartment, laid down a massive bowl of water, and took the lid off the food bin entirely. He could feed himself. She piled blankets on the couch, tucking him into them, and kissed him once on his furry head before she grabbed what she needed and ran out the door again.

  She raced to the roof, shrugging on Danika’s leather jacket, then tying the Fendyr family’s sword across her back. She tucked one of Hunt’s handguns into the waist of her jeans, shouldered his rifle, and slid as many packs of ammo as she could into her pockets. She surveyed the city and her blood turned to ice. It was worse—so much worse—than she’d imagined.

  Micah hadn’t just opened a portal to Hel in the Heart Gate. He’d opened one in every Gate. Every one of the seven quartz arches was a doorway to Hel.

  Screams from below rose as the demons raced from the voids and into the defenseless city.

  A siren wailed. A warning cry—and an order.

  Bomb shelters opened, their automatic foot-thick doors sliding aside to let in those already gathered. Bryce lifted her phone to her ear.

  Juniper, for once, picked up on the first ring. “Oh gods, Bryce—”

  “Get somewhere safe!”

  “I am, I am,” Juniper sobbed. “We were having a dress rehearsal with some big donors, and we’re all in the shelter down the block, and—” Another sob. “Bryce, they’re saying they’re going to shut the door early.”

  Horror lurched through her. “People need to get in. They need every moment you can spare.”

  Juniper wept. “I told them that, but they’re frantic and won’t listen. They won’t let humans in.”

  “Fucking bastards,” Bryce breathed, studying the shelter still open down her block—the people streaming inside. The shelters could be shut manually at any time, but all would close within an hour. Sealed until the threat was dealt with.

  Juniper’s voice crackled. “I’ll make them hold the doors. But Bryce, it’s—” Reception cut out as she presumably moved farther into the shelter, and Bryce glanced northward, toward the theaters. Mere blocks from the Heart Gate. “Mess of—” Another crackle. “Safe?”

  “I’m safe,” Bryce lied. “Stay in the shelter. Hold the doors for as long as you can.”

  But Juniper, sweet and determined and brave, wouldn’t be able to calm a panicked crowd. Especially one draped in finery—and convinced of their right to live at the expense of all others.

  Juniper’s voice crackled again, so Bryce just said, “I love you, June.” And hung up.

  She fired off a message to Jesiba about the literal Hel being unleashed, and when she received no instantaneous reply, added another saying that she was heading out into it. Because someone had to.

  Demons soared into the skies from the Moonwood Gate. Bryce could only pray the Den had gone into lockdown already. But the Den had guards by the dozen and powerful enchantments. Parts of this city had no protection at all.

  It was enough to send her sprinting for the stairs off the roof. Down through the building.

  And into the chaotic streets below.

  * * *

  “Demons are coming out of every Gate,” Declan reported over the clamor of various leaders and their teams shouting into their phones. The Gates now held black voids within their archways. As if an invisible set of doors had been opened within them.

  He could only see six of them on his screens, since the Bone Quarter had no cameras, but Declan supposed he could safely assume the Dead Gate across the Istros held the same darkness. Jesiba Roga made no attempt to contact the Under-King, but kept her eyes fixed on the feeds. Her face was ashen.

  It didn’t matter, Hunt thought, looking over Declan’s shoulder. The denizens of the Bone Quarter were already dead.

  Calls were going out—many weren’t being answered. Sabine barked orders at Amelie, both of them pressing phones to their ears as they tried to reach the Alphas of the city packs.

  On every screen in the conference center, cameras from around Crescent City revealed a land of nightmares. Hunt didn’t know where to look. Each new image was more awful than the last. Demons he recognized with chilling clarity—the worst of the worst—poured into the city through the Gates. Demons that had been an effort for him to kill. The people of Lunathion didn’t stand a chance.

  Not the urbane, clever demons like Aidas. No, these were the grunts. The beasts of the Pit. Its wild dogs, hungry for easy prey.

  In FiRo, the iridescent bubbles of the villas’ defense enchantments already gleamed. Locking out anyone poor or unlucky enough to be on the streets. It was there, in front of the ironclad walls of the city’s richest citizens, that the Aux had been ordered to go. To protect the already safe.

  Hunt snarled at Sabine, “Tell your packs there are defenseless homes where they’re needed—”

  “These are the protocols,” Sabine snarled back. Amelie Ravenscroft, at least, had the decency to flush with shame and lower her head. But she didn’t dare speak out of turn.

  Hunt growled, “Fuck the protocols.” He pointed to the screens. “Those assholes have enchantments and panic rooms in their villas. The people on the streets have nothing.”

  Sabine ignored him. But Ruhn ordered his father, “Pull our forces from FiRo. Send them where they’re needed.”

  The Autumn King’s jaw worked. But he said, “The protocols are in place for a reason. We will not abandon them to chaos.”

  Hunt demanded, “Are you both fucking kidding me?”

  The afternoon sun inched toward the horizon. He didn’t want to think about how much worse it would get once night fell.

  “I don’t care if they don’t want to,” Tharion was yelling into his phone. “Tell them to go to shore.” A pause. “Then tell them to take anyone they can carry under the surface!”

  Isaiah was on the phone across the room. “No, that time warp was just some spell that went wrong, Naomi. Yeah, it caused the Gates to open. No, get the 33rd to the Old Square. Get them to the Old Square Gate right now. I don’t care if they all get ripped to shreds—” Isaiah pulled his phone away from his ear, blinking at the screen.

  Isaiah’s eyes met Hunt’s. “The CBD is under siege. The 33rd are being slaughtered.” He didn’t muse whether Naomi had just been one of them, or had merely lost her phone in the fight.

  Ruhn and Flynn dialed number after number. No one answered. As if the Fae leaders left in the city were all dead, too.

  Sabine got through. “Ithan—report.”

  Declan wordlessly patched Sabine’s number through to the room’s speakers. Ithan Holstrom’s panting filled the space, his location pinging from outside the bespelled and impenetrable Den. Unearthly, feral growls that did not belong to wolves cut between his words. “They’re fucking everywhere. We can barely keep them away—”

  “Hold positions,” Sabine commanded. “Hold your positions and await further orders.”