“This seems familiar,” Ithan muttered to Hypaxia as they stood on the Black Dock, each clutching a Death Mark in their hands. “You, me, the Under-King …”
“Our best friend,” Hypaxia said wryly, the mists from the Bone Quarter an impenetrable wall across the river. She gestured to the water. “Shall we?”
Ithan nodded, and they flicked their Death Marks into the river. They landed with a soft plunk, and ripples spread outward in only one direction—south. Toward the Bone Quarter. They vanished into the mist.
In the ensuing silence, Ithan dared say, “Jesiba said you and the Governor were, ah … together. How long?”
She threw him a pained wince. “A while. But not anymore.”
“Even while she was with Ephraim?”
“Her arrangement with Ephraim is a political contract. What she and I have … had …” She shook her head, the moonlight silvering her dark curls. “I’m sure Jesiba said I was naïve.”
“Maybe,” he hedged.
Hypaxia looked at where her Death Mark had disappeared under the surface. “Everyone told me, you know. That Archangels aren’t to be trusted. That they’ve got those secret training camps that indoctrinate them, that they’re puppets for the Asteri. But she spent all that time in Nena, and I thought it had removed her from their influence.” She chewed on her lip, then added, “Apparently it gave her incentive to do whatever it took to get her off that frozen bit of land.”
“We … we all make bad decisions.” He blew out a breath. “Gods, that sounded dumb.”
Hypaxia laughed quietly. “It’s appreciated nonetheless.” She sobered. “But when I learned what she’d done … Well. I miss my mother most days, but especially lately. Especially after everything with Celestina.” She indicated the mists across the way. “So I understand why you seek out your brother.”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he offered.
“Most people tell me I should be over her passing. But …” Her shoulders bowed. “I don’t know if there will ever come a day when I don’t feel like there’s a hole in my heart where she used to be.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, his own chest aching. “I know the feeling.” He cleared his throat. “So you couldn’t, uh, raise your mom with your necromancy?”
“No,” Hypaxia said gravely. “She took steps to ensure that her soul did not fall into the clutches of the Under-King. And even if I could, she would resent me for using it for something so … selfish.”
“She was also my queen.” Hypaxia’s chin lifted. “And she would be ashamed to learn that I have defected from the witches and yielded my crown. So, no. I don’t want to see her. I couldn’t face her, even if I had the chance.”
“Aren’t you still a witch, though? I mean, yeah—you’re now in Flame and Shadow, but you didn’t stop being a witch.” Jesiba may have rejected the title, but that had been her choice.
“I’m still a witch,” Hypaxia said, hands curling at her sides. “That can never be taken away from me.”
Ithan surveyed the black planks beneath his feet. He had to arrange the Sailing for the Prime. For Sabine, too, he supposed.
Did he, though? The Prime’s soul was gone. There was nothing to offer up to the Bone Quarter beyond an empty body. And if the people of Lunathion saw the Prime’s boat tip, not understanding why … he couldn’t allow it.
He’d gladly give Sabine the indignity of letting everyone see her boat tip. He’d also be glad to let her soul live on in the Bone Quarter until it was time to be turned into mystery meat for the Asteri, but he’d have to decide whether she deserved a Sailing in the first place.
Gods, he wished Bryce was with him. She’d have an idea. Just cut her up real small and shove her down the garbage disposal.
Ithan snorted and offered up a prayer to Luna’s bright face above him that his friend was indeed safe—and on the move.
A black boat glided out of the mists ahead, aiming straight for Ithan and Hypaxia, waiting on the dock. Exactly as Jesiba had promised it would.
Ithan swallowed hard. “Cab’s here.”
Ithan knew he was Prime of the Valbaran Wolves, but he certainly didn’t feel like it. The whole thing was a joke. He was just … a dude. Granted, one with more power than he’d realized, but now there were people depending on him. He had to make decisions.
At least as sunball captain, he’d had coaches telling him what to do. Now he was coach and captain rolled into one.
And, given how much he’d fucked up lately, how every choice to help Sigrid had only led her toward an absolutely disastrous fate … Gods, he really didn’t feel like Prime at all.
But he tried to at least look like it—back straight, shoulders squared—as he and Hypaxia stood before the Under-King in a gray-stoned temple to Urd.
The Under-King lounged on a throne beneath a behemoth statue of a figure holding a black metal bowl between her upraised hands. Symbols were carved all over the bowl, continuing down her fingers, her arms, her body. Ithan could only assume it was meant to represent Urd. No other temples ever depicted the goddess, no one even dared—most people claimed that fate was impossible to portray in any one form. But it seemed that the dead, unlike the living, had a vision of her. And those symbols running from the bowl onto her skin … they were like tattoos.
They looked oddly familiar. Ithan didn’t have time to ponder it as he and Hypaxia inclined their heads to the Under-King.
“Thank you for the audience,” Ithan said, trying to keep his breathing normal. Praying that none of those hounds the Under-King had sent after them on the Autumnal Equinox were lurking around in the misty shadows.
At least there weren’t any Reapers. No sign of Sigrid, wherever she’d gone. One more clusterfuck for him to deal with—but another day. If he managed to live another day, of course.
The Under-King’s bony, withered fingers clicked on the stone arms of his throne. “Prime,” he said to Ithan, “I’m honored to be your first political visit. Though I believe protocol dictates that a meeting with the Governor should have been your priority.” A knowing glance at Hypaxia. “Unless present company makes such things … uncomfortable.”
Hypaxia’s eyes flickered, but she said nothing.
They’d come here for a reason, so Ithan ignored the Under-King’s mocking and said, “Look, uh … Your Majesty.” The Under-King gave him a smile that was all browned, aged teeth. Ithan tried not to shudder. “Jesiba Roga said you agreed that we could make a request. I’d like to speak to my brother, Connor Holstrom.”
The Under-King turned to Hypaxia. “Did I not give you duties to attend to?”
“Handing out blood bags to vampyrs isn’t a good use of my time,” Hypaxia said with impressive authority.
“Shall I reassign you to waiting on the Reapers?” A cruel smile. “They’d enjoy a taste or two of you, girl.”
“I only want five minutes with my brother,” Ithan interrupted.
“To do what?” The Under-King leaned forward.
“I need to tell him a few things.”
“The goodbye you never got to say,” the Under-King taunted.
“Yes,” Ithan said sharply.
The Under-King angled his head. “And you promise not to warn him of what awaits?”
“Does it matter if I do? He’s trapped here already,” Ithan said, gesturing to the temple, the barren land beyond.
“I have no interest in civil unrest—even amongst the dead,” the Under-King said. “And too much unrest would bring unwanted attention and questions.” From the Asteri, no doubt.
Ithan crossed his arms. “That didn’t seem to be your position when you sold my friends out to Pippa Spetsos.”
“Pippa Spetsos stood to assist in expanding my kingdom significantly,” the creature said. “It was an investment for my Reapers—to keep them contented and fed.”
Ithan blocked out the flash of the Prime’s broken body, the way Sigrid had sucked out his soul.
Hypaxia said calmly, “Why did the Reapers first defect from Apollion and join you?”
The Under-King flinched. “Do not speak his name here.”
“My apologies,” Hypaxia murmured. She didn’t sound at all sorry.
But the Under-King settled himself. “In Hel, the Reapers fed on and ruled the vampyrs, and when the vampyrs defected to this world, the Reapers followed their food source. And found the other beings on Midgard to be a veritable feast. So they have left the vampyrs to themselves, feeding as they please on the rest of the populace.”
Ithan couldn’t stop his shudder this time. He couldn’t imagine what Hel was like, if Reapers and vampyrs had just been walking about—
“But you are not from Hel,” Hypaxia said.
“No.” The Under-King’s milky eyes settled on Ithan. “I was birthed by the Void, but my people …” He smiled cruelly at Ithan. “They were not unknown to your own ancestors, wolf. I crept through when they charged so blindly into Midgard. This place is much better suited to my needs than the caves and barrows I was confined to.”
Ithan reeled. “You came from the shifters’ world?”
“You were not known as shifters then, boy.”
“Then what—”
“And she,” the Under-King went on, gesturing to that unusual depiction of Urd towering above him, “was not a goddess, but a force that governed worlds. A cauldron of life, brimming with the language of creation. Urd, they call her here—a bastardized version of her true name. Wyrd, we called her in that old world.”
“That is all well and good,” Hypaxia said, “but my friend’s request—”
“Go speak to your brother, boy,” the Under-King drawled, almost melancholy. As if all the talk of his old world had exhausted him. “You have seven minutes.”
Ithan’s mouth dried out. “But where—”
The Under-King pointed to the exit behind them. “There.”
Ithan turned. And there was Connor, as vibrant as he’d ever been in life, standing in the temple doorway.
