House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City) (34 page)

“Don’t blame Athie. I think he wants to be our friend.”

“I don’t give a shit what Hunt Athalar wants.”

“June is busy with ballet, and Fury is as good as gone. Maybe it’s time for more friends, BB. You seem sad again. Like you were two winters ago. Fine one minute, then not fine the next. You don’t dance, you don’t hang out with anyone, you don’t—”

“Leave it, Lehabah.”

“Hunt is nice. And Prince Ruhn is nice. But Danika was never nice to me. Always biting and snarling. Or she ignored me.”

“Watch it
.
”

The sprite crawled off her arm and floated in front of her, arms wrapping across her round belly. “You can be cold as a Reaper,
Bryce.” Then she was gone, whizzing off to stop a thick leather-bound tome from crawling its way up the stairs.

Bryce blew out a long breath, trying to piece the hole in her chest together.

Twenty minutes, Hunt had said. She had twenty minutes before going to question Briggs. Twenty minutes to get her shit together. Or at least pretend she had.

35

T
he fluorescent wands of firstlight hummed through the white-paneled, pristine corridor far beneath the Comitium. Hunt was a storm of black and gray against the shining white tiles, his steps unfaltering as he aimed for one of the sealed metal doors at the end of the long hall.

A step behind him, Bryce simply watched Hunt move—the way he cut through the world, the way the guards in the entry room hadn’t so much as checked his ID before waving them through.

She hadn’t realized that this place existed beneath the five shining towers of the Comitium. That they had cells. Interrogation rooms.

The one she’d been in the night Danika had died had been five blocks from here. A facility governed by protocols. But this place … She tried not to think about what this place was for. What laws stopped applying once one crossed over the threshold.

The lack of any scent except bleach suggested it was scrubbed down often. The drains she noted every few feet suggested—

She didn’t want to know what the drains suggested.

They reached a room without windows, and Hunt laid a palm against the circular metal lock to its left. A hum and hiss, and he shouldered open the door, peering inside before nodding to her.

The firstlights above droned like hornets. What would her own
firstlight go toward, small mote that it would be? With Hunt, the explosion of energy-filled light that had probably erupted from him when he’d made the Drop had likely gone toward fueling an entire city.

She sometimes wondered about it: whose firstlight was powering her phone, or the stereo, or her coffee machine.

And now was not the time to think about random shit, she chided herself as she followed Hunt into the cell and beheld the pale-skinned man sitting there.

Two seats had been set before the metal table in the center of the room—where Briggs’s shackles were currently chained. His white jumpsuit was pristine, but—

Bryce beheld the state of his gaunt, hollow face and willed herself not to flinch. His dark hair was buzzed close to his scalp, and though not a bruise or scratch marred his skin, his deep blue eyes … empty and hopeless.

Briggs said nothing as she and Hunt claimed the seats across the table. Cameras blinked red lights in every corner, and she had no doubt someone was listening in a control room a few doors down.

“We won’t take much of your time,” Hunt said, as if noting those haunted eyes as well.

“Time is all I have now, angel. And being here is better than being … there.”

There, where they kept him in Adrestia Prison. Where they did the things to him that resulted in those broken, awful eyes.

Bryce could feel Hunt silently urging her to ask the first of their questions, and she took a breath, bracing herself to fill this humming, too-small room with her voice.

But Briggs asked, “What month is it? What’s today’s date?”

Horror coiled in her gut. This man had wanted to kill people, she reminded herself. Even if it seemed he hadn’t killed Danika, he had planned to kill plenty of others, to ignite a larger-scale war between the human and Vanir. To overthrow the Asteri. It was why he remained behind bars.

“It’s the twelfth of April,” Hunt said, his voice low, “in the year 15035.”

“It’s only been two years?”

Bryce swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. “We came to ask you about some things related to two years ago. As well as some recent events.”

Briggs looked at her then. Really looked. “Why?”

Hunt leaned back, a silent indication that this was now her show to run. “The White Raven nightclub was bombed a few days ago. Considering that it was one of your prime targets a few years ago, evidence points toward Keres being active again.”

“And you think I’m behind it?” A bitter smile curved the angular, harsh face. Hunt tensed. “I don’t know what
year
it is, girl. And you think I’m somehow able to make outside contact?”

“What about your followers?” Hunt said carefully. “Would they have done it in your name?”

“Why bother?” Briggs reclined in his chair. “I failed them. I failed our people.” He nodded toward Bryce. “And failed people like you—the undesirables.”

“You never represented me,” Bryce said quietly. “I abhor what you tried to do.”

Briggs laughed, a broken rasp. “When the Vanir tell you you’re not good enough for any job because of your human blood, when males like this asshole next to you just see you as a piece of ass to be fucked and then discarded, when you see your mother—it is a human mother for you, isn’t it? It always is—being treated like trash … You’ll find those self-righteous feelings fading real fast.”

She refused to reply. To think about the times she’d seen her mother ignored or sneered at—

Hunt said, “So you’re saying you’re not behind this bombing.”

“Again,” Briggs said, tugging on his shackles, “the only people I see on a daily basis are the ones who take me apart like a cadaver, and then stitch me up again before nightfall, their medwitches smoothing everything away.”

Her stomach churned. Even Hunt’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Your followers wouldn’t have considered bombing the nightclub in revenge?”

Briggs demanded, “Against who?”

“Us. For investigating Danika Fendyr’s murder and looking for Luna’s Horn.”

Briggs’s blue eyes shuttered. “So the assholes in the 33rd finally realized I didn’t kill her.”

“You haven’t been officially cleared of anything,” Hunt said roughly.

Briggs shook his head, staring at the wall to his left. “I don’t know anything about Luna’s Horn, and I’m sure as shit no Keres soldier did either, but I liked Danika Fendyr. Even when she busted me, I liked her.”

Hunt stared at the gaunt, haunted man—a shell of the powerfully built adult he’d been two years ago. What they were doing to him in that prison … Fucking Hel.

Hunt could take a few guesses about the manner of torture. The memories of it being inflicted upon him still dragged him from sleep.

Bryce was blinking at Briggs. “What do you mean, you
liked
her?”

Briggs smiled, savoring Quinlan’s surprise. “She circled me and my agents for weeks. She even met with me twice. Told me to stop my plans—or else she’d have to bring me in. Well, that was the first time. The second time she warned me that she had enough evidence against me that she
had
to bring me in, but I could get off easy if I admitted to my plotting and ended it then and there. I didn’t listen then, either. That third time … She brought her pack, and that was that.”

Hunt reined in his emotions, setting his features into neutrality.

“Danika went easy on you?” Bryce’s face had drained of color. It took a surprising amount of effort not to touch her hand.

“She tried to.” Briggs ran gnarled fingers down his pristine jumpsuit. “For a Vanir, she was fair. I don’t think she necessarily disagreed with us. With my methods, yes, but I thought she might have been a sympathizer.” He surveyed Bryce again with a starkness that had Hunt’s hackles rising.

Hunt suppressed a growl at the term. “Your followers knew this?”

“Yes. I think she even let some of them get away that night.”

Hunt blew out a breath. “That is a big fucking claim to make against an Aux leader.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she? Who cares?”

Bryce flinched. Enough so that Hunt didn’t hold back his growl this time.

“Danika wasn’t a rebel sympathizer,” Bryce hissed.

Briggs looked down his nose at her. “Not yet, maybe,” he agreed, “but Danika could have been starting down that path. Maybe
she
saw how her pretty, half-breed friend was treated by others and didn’t like it too much, either.” He smiled knowingly when Bryce blinked at his correct guess regarding her relationship to Danika. The emotions he’d probably read in her face.

Briggs went on, “My followers knew Danika was a potential asset. We’d discussed it, right up until the raid. And that night, Danika and her pack were fair with us. We fought, and even managed to get in a few good blows on that Second of hers.” He whistled. “Connor Holstrom.” Bryce went utterly rigid. “Guy was a bruiser.” From the cruel curve of his lips, he’d clearly noticed how stiff she’d gone at the mention of Connor’s name. “Was Holstrom your boyfriend? Pity.”

“That’s none of your business.” The words were flat as Briggs’s eyes.

They tightened something in Hunt’s chest, her words. The vacancy in her voice.

Hunt asked him, “You never mentioned any of this when you were initially arrested?”

Briggs spat, “Why the
fuck
would I ever rat out a potentially sympathetic, incredibly powerful Vanir like Danika Fendyr? I might have been headed for
this
”—he gestured to the cell around them—“but the cause would live on. It
had
to live on, and I knew that someone like Danika could be a mighty ally to have on our side.”

Hunt cut in, “But why not mention any of this during your murder trial?”

“My trial? You mean that two-day sham they televised? With that
lawyer
the Governor assigned me?” Briggs laughed and laughed. Hunt had to remind himself that this was an imprisoned man, enduring unspeakable torture. And not someone he could punch in the face. Not even for the way his laugh made Quinlan shift in her seat. “I knew they’d pin it on me no matter what. Knew that even if I told the truth, I’d wind up here. So on the chance that Danika might have friends still living who shared her sentiments, I kept her secrets to myself.”

“You’re ratting her out now,” Bryce said.

But Briggs didn’t reply to that, and instead studied the dented metal table. “I said it two years ago, and I’ll say it again now: Keres didn’t kill Danika or the Pack of Devils. The White Raven bombing, though—they might have managed that. Good for them if they did.”

Hunt ground his teeth. Had he been this out of touch with reality when he’d followed Shahar? Had it been this level of fanaticism that prompted him to lead the angels of the 18th to Mount Hermon? In those last days, would he have even
listened
to anyone if they’d advised against it?

A hazy memory surfaced, of Isaiah doing just that, screaming in Hunt’s war tent. Fuck.

Briggs asked, “Did a lot of Vanir die in the bombing?”

Disgust curdled Bryce’s face. “No,” she said, standing from her chair. “Not a single one.” She spoke with the imperiousness of a queen. Hunt could only rise with her.

Briggs tsked. “Too bad.”

Hunt’s fingers balled into fists. He’d been so wildly in love with Shahar, with the cause—had he been no better than this man?

Bryce said tightly, “Thank you for answering our questions.” Without waiting for Briggs to reply, she hurried for the door. Hunt kept a step behind her, even with Briggs anchored to the table.

That she’d ended the meeting so quickly showed Hunt that Bryce shared his opinion: Briggs truly hadn’t killed Danika.

He’d nearly reached the open doorway when Briggs said to him, “You’re one of the Fallen, huh?” Hunt paused. Briggs smiled.
“Tons of respect for you, man.” He surveyed Hunt from head to toe. “What part of the 18th did you serve in?”

Hunt said nothing. But Briggs’s blue eyes shone. “We’ll bring the bastards down someday, brother.”

Hunt glanced toward Bryce, already halfway down the hallway, her steps swift. Like she couldn’t stand to breathe the same air as the man chained to the table, like she had to get out of this awful place. Hunt himself had been here, interrogated people, more often than he cared to remember.

And the kill he’d made last night … It had lingered. Ticked off another life-debt, but it had lingered.

Briggs was still staring at him, waiting for Hunt to speak. The agreement that Hunt would have voiced weeks ago now dissolved on his tongue.

No, he’d been no better than this man.

He didn’t know where that put him.

“So Briggs and his followers are off the list,” Bryce said, folding her feet beneath her on her living room couch. Syrinx was already snoring beside her. “Unless you think he was lying?”

Hunt, seated at the other end of the sectional, frowned at the sunball game just starting on TV. “He was telling the truth. I’ve dealt with enough … prisoners to sense when someone’s lying.”

The words were clipped. He’d been on edge since they’d left the Comitium through the same unmarked street door they’d used to enter. No chance of running into Sandriel that way.

Hunt pointed to the papers Bryce had brought from the gallery, noting some of Danika’s movements and the list of names she’d compiled. “Remind me who’s the next suspect on your list?”

Bryce didn’t answer as she observed his profile, the light of the screen bouncing off his cheekbones, deepening the shadow beneath his strong jaw.

He truly was pretty. And really seemed to be in a piss-poor mood. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Says the guy who’s grinding his teeth so hard I can hear them.”

Hunt cut her a glare and spread a muscled arm along the back of the couch. He’d changed when they’d returned thirty minutes ago, having grabbed a quick bite at a noodles-and-dumplings food cart just down the block, and now wore a soft gray T-shirt, black sweats, and a white sunball cap turned backward.

It was the hat that had proven the most confusing—so ordinary and …
guy-ish
, for lack of a better word, that she’d been stealing glances at him for the past fifteen minutes. Stray locks of his dark hair curled around the edges, the adjustable band nearly covered the tattoo over his brow, and she had no idea why, but it was all just … Disgustingly distracting.

“What?” he asked, noting her gaze.

Bryce reached forward, her long braid slipping over a shoulder, and grabbed his phone from the coffee table. She snapped a photo of him and sent a copy to herself, mostly because she doubted anyone would believe her that Hunt fucking Athalar was sitting on her couch in casual clothes, sunball hat on backward, watching TV and drinking a beer.

The Shadow of Death, everyone.

“That’s annoying,” he said through his teeth.