Rushing water roared through the cavern, its spray coating Bryce’s face with drops so cold they were kisses of ice.
The strange carvings had continued all the way here, showing great Fae battles and lovemaking and childbirth. Showing a masked queen, a crown upon her head, bearing instruments in her hand and standing before an adoring crowd. Behind her, a great mountaintop palace rose toward the sky, winged horses soaring among the clouds. No doubt some religious iconography of her divine right to rule. Beyond the mountaintop palace, a lush archipelago spread into the distance, rendered with remarkable detail and skill.
Scenes of a blessed land, a thriving civilization. One relief had been so similar to the frieze of the Fae male forging the sword at the Crescent City Ballet that Bryce had nearly gasped. The last carving before the river had been one of transition: a Fae King and Queen seated on thrones, a mountain—different from the one with the palace atop it—behind them with three stars rising above it. A different kingdom, then. Some ancient High Lord and Lady, Nesta had suggested before approaching the river.
She hadn’t commented on the lower half of the carving, which depicted a Helscape beneath their thrones, some kind of underworld. Humanoid figures writhed in pain amid what looked like icicles and snapping, scaly beasts—either past enemies conquered or an indication of what failure to bow to the rulers would bring upon the defiant.
The suffering stretched throughout, lingering even underneath that archipelago and its mountaintop palace. Even here, in paradise, death and evil remained. A common motif in Midgardian art, too, usually with the caption: Et in Avallen ego.
Even in Avallen, there am I.
A whispered promise from Death. Another version of memento mori. A reminder that death was always, always waiting. Even in the blessed Fae isle of Avallen.
Maybe all the ancient art that glorified the idea of memento mori had been brought to Midgard by these people.
Maybe she was thinking too much about shit that really didn’t matter at the moment. Especially with an impassable river before her.
Bryce and Nesta peered down at the cascade rushing past, the night-dark waters flowing deeper into the caverns. The scent of iron was stronger here, likely because they now stood closer to the river than they had before. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fact that the tunnel continued on the other side, and the gap was large enough that jumping wasn’t an option.
“Now would be a good time for your friends with wings to find us,” Bryce muttered. Her star shone ahead, faint but still pointing the way to the path across the river.
Nesta glanced over a shoulder. “You winnowed out of the cell.” So the shadows had told Nesta and the others everything. “You can’t do so again?”
“I, ah … It drained me.” She hated to reveal any sort of weakness, but didn’t see a way around it. “I’m still recovering.”
“Surely your magic should have replenished by now. You were able to use some against me before the cave-in. And the star on your chest still glows. Some magic must remain in you.”
“I was always able to get it to glow,” Bryce confessed, “long before I ever had true power.” For a heartbeat, Bryce debated telling Nesta how she’d attained her depth of power, how she could get even more if someone fueled her up. Just to let the warrior know she wasn’t some loser who froze in the face of an enemy, giant Wyrm or no.
But that would reveal more about her abilities than was wise.
“You can’t, uh … winnow?” Bryce asked Nesta.
“I’ve never tried,” Nesta admitted. “My powers are unusual amongst the High Fae.”
“High Fae? As opposed to … normal Fae?”
Nesta shrugged. “They use the High part to make themselves sound more important than they are.”
Bryce’s mouth twitched upward. “Sounds like the Fae in my world.” She angled her head. “But you’re High Fae. You … talk about them like you’re not.”
“I’m new to the Fae realms,” Nesta said, her focus again on the river. “I was born human and turned High Fae against my will.” She sighed. “It’s a long story. But I’ve only lived in the faerie lands for a handful of years now. Much of this is still strange to me.”
“I know the feeling,” Bryce said. “My mother is human, my father Fae. I’ve lived between two worlds my entire life.”
Nesta nodded shallowly. “None of that helps us get across the river.”
Bryce surveyed her companion. If Nesta was originally human and had been turned Fae—however the fuck that was possible—maybe her sympathies still lay with humankind. Maybe she’d understand how it was to be powerless and frightened in a world designed to oppress and kill her—
Or maybe she’d been sent to win Bryce’s sympathy and trust, working for a so-called High Lord. Everything she’d said in these tunnels could have been a lie. And she was powerful enough that she’d been called in to look at the Horn on Bryce’s back—she was no defenseless lamb.
“Up for a swim?” Bryce asked the warrior, kneeling to dip a hand into the river. She hissed at its ice-cold bite.
Great. Just … great.
She frowned at the dark, rushing water, illuminated by the light from her star. Smooth white pebbles glimmered brightly far beneath the surface. Really brightly.
Bryce glanced at her star. It was glowing more strongly now. She stood, wiping her wet, chilled hand on the thigh of her leggings. The star dimmed.
“What is it?” Nesta took a step closer, a hand rising toward the sword at her back.
Bryce knelt again, plunging her hand back into the frigid river. Her star glowed brighter as she angled its light over the water. She twisted on her knees, toward the gloom downriver. The starlight flared in answer. It faded to a dull light when she pivoted back toward the tunnel ahead.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bryce muttered, rising to her feet again.
“What?” Nesta asked, scanning the river, the darkness around them.
Bryce didn’t reply. The star had led her this far. If it wanted her in the river …
Bryce glanced over a shoulder to Nesta. “See you at the bottom.” And with a wink, Bryce jumped into the roaring water.
The cold knocked the breath from Bryce.
The thrashing river was illuminated by her star, the water a clear, striking blue in the small bubble of her light. It glazed the high cavern ceiling, and it was all Bryce could do to keep her head above the rapids, from being smashed against the boulders spiking up throughout the twisting length of the river.
Behind her, Nesta had jumped in—as Bryce had rounded a bend a moment ago, she’d heard Nesta’s snapped “Reckless idiot!” before the roar of the river swallowed all sounds once more.
The star had to be leading her somewhere. To something.
Bryce was hurled around another bend in the caverns, and as she struggled to keep her head clear of the water, her star seemed to extend a beam into the darkness.
The ray of silvery light landed upon a small pool bulging out of the opposite side of the river. A break in the rapids. Right in front of a small bank … and another looming tunnel entrance beyond.
Bryce began swimming for the pool, her body screaming with the effort of pushing perpendicular to the current, racing to reach that sliver of calm water before she was swept past. Stroke after stroke, kick after kick, she aimed for that narrow shore.
She turned to warn Nesta to make for the shore, too, but found that the female was a few feet behind her, swimming like mad for the bank. So Bryce continued swimming, arms straining as the river pulled her forward mercilessly. If she and Nesta didn’t reach the little pool soon, they’d miss it entirely—
The tug of the water relented. Bryce’s strokes became easier, her pace faster.
And then she was in the pool, the water still and light compared to the raging beast behind her. She clawed at the rocky shore, hauling herself onto it.
Rocks scraped against each other beside her, and then Nesta’s heavy, wet breathing sounded. “What …” Nesta panted. “The …” Another breath. “Fuck.”
Bryce inhaled all that beautiful, wonderful air, even as intense cold began to shake through her very bones. “The star said to go this way,” she managed to say.
“Some warning would have been good,” Nesta growled.
Bryce rose onto her elbows, gasping down breath after breath. “Why? You would have tried to talk me out of it.”
“Because,” Nesta bit out, wiping the water from her eyes as she got to her knees, “we could have come down here without having to get wet. I’m not to let you out of my sight—not even for a moment, so I had no choice but to go after you. But since you jumped in so damned fast … Now we’re freezing.”
“How could we have reached here without getting wet?” Bryce asked, shuddering with cold, teeth already clacking against each other.
Nesta rolled her eyes and said to the shadows, “You might as well come out now.”
Bryce whirled on her knees, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there as Azriel landed from above them.
His wings were spread so wide they nearly touched either side of the cavern, and the black dagger hung at his hip, its dark hilt gleaming faintly in the light of her star. And peeking above a broad shoulder, its matching dark hilt like shadow given form, was the Starsword.
“What the fuck do you mean Bryce isn’t in Hel?” Ruhn managed to say around what was left of his tongue, every breath like shards of glass slicing down his throat.
Hunt gave no answer, and Ruhn supposed he hadn’t really expected one, anyway.
Baxian grunted, “Where?” It was about all the angel could get out, Ruhn realized.
“Dunno,” Hunt said, voice gravelly from screaming.
The Hawk had yanked the lever that sent them all plunging, laughing when they’d yelped as their injuries collided with cold stone. As reeking puddles of their own blood and waste splashed onto them. But at least they were on the floor.
Still chained at the wrists and ankles, Ruhn had only been able to lie there, shuddering, tears leaking from his eyes at the relief in his shoulders, his arms, his lungs.
The Hawk had slid a tray of food toward them before he left—but kept it far enough away that they’d have to crawl through their piss and shit to get to it before the rats converged.
Baxian was currently trying to reach the tray, legs pushing against the stones, the half-grown stumps of his wings stained red. He stretched a filthy hand toward the broth and water, and groaned deeply. Blood leaked from a wound in his ribs.
Ruhn wasn’t sure he could eat, though his body screamed for food. He took breath after sawing breath.
The Oracle had told him that the royal bloodline ended with him. Had she seen that he’d wind up here—and never walk out alive? Cold worse than the dungeons’ damp chill crept through him.
He had come to peace with the possibility of this fate for himself a long time ago. Granted, not this particular demise, but an untimely end in some vague sense. But now that Bryce was a true royal, the prophecy shed light on her fate, too. If she hadn’t made it to Hel … perhaps she hadn’t made it anywhere. Thus ending the royal bloodline with both of their deaths.
He couldn’t share his suspicions with Athalar. Couldn’t offer up that bit of despair that would break the Umbra Mortis worse than any of Pollux’s tools. It would be Ruhn’s secret to keep. His own wretched truth, left to fester in his heart.
The smell of stale bread filled his nostrils, rising above the stench as the tray slid in front of him. Splashing through a puddle of—Ruhn didn’t want to know what the liquid was. Though his nose offered up a few unpleasant suggestions.
“Gotta eat,” Hunt said, hands shaking as he brought a cup of broth to his mouth.
“Don’t want us dead, then,” Baxian said, slowly lifting a piece of bread.
“Not yet.” Athalar sipped slowly. Like he didn’t trust his body not to chuck it all up. “Eat, Danaan.”
It was a command, and Ruhn found himself reaching his weak, trembling fingers toward the broth. It took all his focus, all his strength, to raise it to his lips. He could barely taste it. Right—his tongue was still regrowing. He sipped again.
“I don’t know where Bryce is,” Hunt said, voice raw. He picked up a piece of bread with his good hand. The burned fingers on his other hand were twisted at different angles. Some were missing nails.
Fuck, how had their lives come to this?
Athalar took the last bite of bread and lay back—right in the reeking piles and puddles. He closed his eyes. The halo gleamed darkly on the angel’s brow. Ruhn knew Athalar’s relaxed posture belied his thoughts. Knew the angel was probably frantic with worry and dread.
Guilt was likely eating Athalar alive. Guilt that wasn’t his to bear—they’d all made choices that had landed them here. But the words were too heavy, too painful for Ruhn to voice.
Baxian finished and lay down as well, instantly asleep. The Hammer and the Hawk had come down especially hard on the Helhound. It was personal with them—Baxian had been one of their own. A brother-in-arms, a partner in cruelty. Now they’d take him apart piece by piece.
Ruhn lifted his cup again—a silicone one that couldn’t be broken to use as a weapon—and peered into the water within. Watched it ripple with his breath.
“We need to get out of here,” Ruhn said, and nothing had ever sounded more stupid. Of course they needed to get out of here. For so many fucking reasons.
But Athalar cracked open an eye. Met his stare. Pain and rage and determination shone there, unbroken despite the halo and slave brand on his wrist. “Then talk to your … person.” Girlfriend, the angel didn’t say.
Ruhn ground his teeth, and his ravaged mouth gave a burst of pain. He’d rather die here than beg the Hind for help. “Another way.”
“I was in these dungeons … for seven years,” Hunt said. “No way out. Especially not with Pollux so invested in ripping us apart.”
Ruhn glanced again at the halo. He knew the angel didn’t only mean a way out of the dungeons. The Asteri owned them now.
Baxian stirred from his slumber to wearily rasp, “I never appreciated it, Athalar. What you went through.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t get a badge of honor when I left here.” The light words were at odds with the utter emptiness of Hunt’s stare. Ruhn couldn’t stand to see it there, in the eyes of the Umbra Mortis.
Baxian chuckled brokenly, playing along. “Maybe Pollux will give you one this time.”
If Ruhn got free, Pollux would be the first asshole he ended. He didn’t dwell on why. Didn’t dwell on the rage that coursed through him whenever he saw the white-winged angel.
He’d been so stupid. Naïve and reckless and stupid to let himself get in so deep with Day—with Lidia—and forget the Oracle’s warning. Delude himself into thinking that it probably meant he wouldn’t have kids. He’d been so fucking pathetic and lonely that he’d needed to think the best, even though it was clear he’d always had a one-way ticket to disaster.
The only thing left to do was put an end to it.
So Ruhn said, “You were alone then, Athalar.”
Hunt met Ruhn’s stare, as if to say, Oh yeah? Ruhn just nodded. Friends, brothers, whatever—he had Athalar’s back.
Something glimmered in Athalar’s eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or hope. Much better than what had been there moments ago. It sharpened Ruhn’s focus. Cleared the pain-fogged bits of his brain. This might be a one-way ticket for him, but it didn’t have to be for Hunt. And Bryce …
Ruhn looked away before Hunt could read the fear that filled his eyes, his heart.
Thankfully, Baxian added, “And you weren’t … the Umbra Mortis back then, either. You’ve changed, Athalar.”
Hunt let out a grating laugh, full of challenge and defiance. Thank the gods for that. “What are you thinking, Danaan?”
