If the Autumn King was indeed cooking their meals, then Bryce had to admit that he wasn’t a bad chef. Roast chicken, green beans, and some thickly sliced bread waited on the marble table in the vast dining room.
Apparently, she’d arrived around three in the afternoon on a Friday. That was all she’d been able to get out of him while he’d led her from his office to a bedroom on the second floor. Not what the date was, or even the month. Or year.
Nausea coursed through her. Hunt had been kept in the Asteri dungeons for years the last time … Was he still there? Was he even alive? Was Ruhn? Her family?
There was nothing in her bedroom, an elegant—if bland—blend of marble and overstuffed furniture in varying shades of gray and white, to aid in answering these questions. Her father wanted her cut off from the world, and so it was: No TV. No phone—not even a landline. A glamour shimmered on the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an interior lavender garden, blocking prying eyes from seeing in. A peek toward the sky showed an iridescent bubble over the whole place—wards. Like the ones the Fae had established to lock down their territory during the attack this spring.
But it was the screams of pleading Fae parents as Silene locked them out of their home world, leaving their children to the Asteri’s cruelty, that echoed through Bryce’s head.
And now, sitting across the massive dining table from her father hours later, having showered and changed into a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a skintight navy blue athletic jacket that he’d given her—she really fucking hoped they weren’t left over from a booty call—Bryce asked, “So is this the plan? Lock me up here until I get so bored that I tell you everything? Or is it to deprive me of information so that I’ll tell you anything in exchange for a snippet of news about Hunt?”
Her father sliced into his chicken with a precision that told her exactly how he dealt with his enemies. But he sighed through his nose. “Your hosts in the other world must have had a high tolerance for irreverent nonsense, if you’re still alive.”
“Most people call it charm.”
He sipped from his wine. “How long were you there?”
“Tell me about Ruhn and Hunt.”
He sipped again. “That wasn’t even a good attempt to surprise me into answering.”
“You know, only a real piece of shit would withhold that information.”
He set down his wine. “Here is how this shall work. For every question of mine that you answer, you shall receive an answer to one of your questions. If I sense that you are lying, you shall not get a reply from me.”
“You know, I just played this game with someone even more horrible than you—shocking, I know—and it didn’t end well for her. So I suggest we skip the Q and A and you tell me what I want to know.”
He only stared. He’d sit here all fucking night.
Bryce tapped her foot on the marble floor, weighing it out. “Fine.”
“Did you truly go to the home world of the Fae?”
“Yes.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Athalar and Ruhn are still alive.”
Bryce tried not to sag with relief. “How long—”
He held up a finger. “My turn.”
Fucker.
“What was their world like?”
“I don’t know—I only saw a holding cell and some tunnels and caverns. But … it seemed free. Of the Asteri, at least.” And then, because she knew it would upset him, she said, “The Fae there are stronger than we are. The Asteri take a chunk of our power through the Drop—it feeds them, sustains them. In that other world, the Fae retain their full, pure power.”
She could have sworn his face had paled, even under the flattering golden glow of the twin iron chandeliers dangling above. It made her more smug than she’d expected.
“How long was I gone?” she asked.
“Five days.”
The timelines between their worlds were similar, then. “And—”
“What did you learn while you were there?”
How to reply? To give him the truth … “I’m still processing.”
“That’s not an acceptable answer.”
“I learned,” she snapped, “that most of the Fae, no matter what world they’re on, are a bunch of selfish assholes.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”
She crossed her arms. “Let’s just say that I know a female who could wipe your sorry ass from existence and not break a sweat.”
And yet Nesta hadn’t done that to Bryce. She’d thought it luck, but was it possible the female had pulled her punches? Nesta hadn’t been anything like Silene or Theia.
It didn’t matter now, but the thought lingered.
“That still doesn’t answer my question. You must have gone to that world for a reason—what did you learn?”
“One, I wound up there by accident. Two, technically, I did answer your question, so be more specific next time.”
Something dark and lethal passed over her father’s face. “How—”
Bryce held up a finger, mocking him. “What happened after I left?”
Her father’s whiskey-colored eyes simmered with flame at the sight of that finger, the command and insistence of the right to speak it conveyed. The sight must have been especially galling from a female.
But he seemed to tamp down his anger and said with a smugness of his own, like he was savoring the bad news as much as she had while giving hers, “The Asteri threw Athalar and your brother into their dungeons, and managed to contain the knowledge of what occurred at their palace. They only informed those of us who needed to know.” He drained his wine. “Did you bring these Fae back into Midgard with you?”
“Did you see them arrive here with me?” No need to tell him that she didn’t part on good terms. Azriel might very well have killed her if she’d stayed a moment longer.
Bryce braced her forearms on the table, gorsian shackles thudding against the cool marble. “So you’ve known Ruhn is in the Asteri’s dungeons for five days and have done nothing to help him?”
“Ruhn deserves all that is coming his way. He chose his fate.”
Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her flesh. “He’s your son, for fuck’s sake.”
“I can have others.”
“Not if I kill you first.” A familiar white haze crept over her vision.
Her father smiled, as if noting the primal fury of the Fae—but purely human rage. “You’re so like your mother.” He smirked. “No questions about her fate?”
“I know you wouldn’t be able to keep from telling me if something had happened to her. You’d take too much pleasure in it. Why have the Asteri kept Hunt and Ruhn alive?”
“I believe it is my turn.”
“I believe it’s my turn. No questions about her fate? counts as a question, asshole.”
Her father’s eyes flickered, as if amused despite himself—and impressed. “Very well.”
“Why have they kept Ruhn and Hunt alive?”
“To use them against you, I assume, though I cannot say for sure.” He poured himself more wine, the fading sunlight streaming through the windows making the liquid glow like fresh blood. “Tell me about the knife—it is the one from our prophecies, the sibling to the Starsword?”
“The one and only. They call it Truth-Teller.” He opened his mouth again, but she tapped her fingers on the table. Better get the lay of the land, assess where any allies might be—if they survived. “What’s the status of Ophion?”
“No attacks since the one on the lab. Their numbers are nearly depleted. Ophion is, for all intents and purposes, dead.”
Bryce reined in her wince.
The Autumn King drank from his wine again. At this rate, he’d get through the whole bottle before the sun had fully set. “How did you attain Truth-Teller?”
“I stole it.” She smiled slightly at his frown of distaste. “What of my other friends—are they all alive?”
“If you counted that traitor Cormac amongst your friends, then no. But the rest of them, as far as I have heard, are alive and well.” Bryce reeled. Cormac was— “Did you steal the dagger to fulfill the prophecy?”
She shrugged with what nonchalance she could muster and set down her fork. “I’m tired of this game.”
Cormac was dead. Had he died that day at the lab, or had it been afterward—perhaps in the Asteri’s dungeons, under their questioning? Or had they simply sent the male home to his shitty father and let the King of Avallen rip him to shreds for dishonoring his household?
The Autumn King smiled like he’d won. “Then you are dismissed. I shall see you tomorrow.”
She pushed past her twisting grief to say, “Fuck you.”
He merely inclined his head and resumed eating in silence.
Ithan strode down the steps of the House of Flame and Shadow in darkness so pure that even his wolf eyes couldn’t pierce it.
He’d never heard anything about what waited at the bottom of the stairs. But he figured he was out of options.
He lost track of how long he walked downward, the air tight and dry. Like a tomb.
The scuff of his sneakers against the steps echoed off the black walls. His eyes strained with the effort of trying to see, to no avail. If the steps ended in a plunge, he’d have no idea. No warning.
It was true, in the end, that he had no warning. But not for a drop. Metal clanked, and his skull with it, as Ithan slammed into a wall. He rebounded, swearing—
Light, golden and soft, cracked through the stairwell.
It wasn’t a wall. It was a door, and beyond it, silhouetted by the light, was a slim female figure. Even before he could make out her face, he knew the voice. Arch, cultured, bored.
“Well, that’s one way of knocking,” drawled Jesiba Roga.
