“You have no idea how many people I had to convince not to eat her carcass on her way down here,” Jesiba drawled as Ithan stared blankly at the shape of the body beneath the white sheet in the morgue.
At the sagging place between neck and head.
Hypaxia, working on something at the counter, called over, “This might take a while.”
Ithan peered around the sterile, tiled morgue and managed to say, “Why do you guys have a morgue down here?”
Jesiba sat on a medical-looking stool, back straight. “Where else are we supposed to raise dead bodies?”
“I don’t know why I asked.”
“You did a number on her, you know.”
Ithan glared at the sorceress. Jesiba winked at him.
But Hypaxia turned to them, and Ithan got his first good look at her face since coming down here. Exhaustion etched deep lines into it, and her eyes were bleak. Hopeless.
What had swearing her allegiance to this House cost her? Jesiba had claimed the ritual had been unusually fast—was that why she looked so drained? Part of him didn’t want to know.
He opened his mouth to tell her she didn’t have to do this for him, that she should rest, but … he didn’t have time. The longer they waited, the less chance they had to be successful at raising the decapitated—
Decapitated—
Nausea churned in his gut.
“Take a seat, Ithan,” Hypaxia said gently. Greenish light wreathed her fingers as she approached the table holding a bundle in her hands.
“Is that a sewing kit?” He was going to puke everywhere.
Jesiba snorted. “You’d better hope her head’s back on when Hypaxia wakes her.”
The former witch-queen pulled a glowing syringe of firstlight from a cabinet and laid it on a tray atop a wheeled cart. “As soon as she wakes, an injection of firstlight will heal the damage. But the head needs to be attached first so that the tendons can regrow and latch on.”
“Okay,” Ithan said, taking a deep breath against his rising nausea. “Okay.” Fuck, he was a monster for having made this necessary.
Jesiba caught Ithan’s eye. “Sure you want to resurrect a Fendyr?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t face the answer. So he said nothing.
Hypaxia began chanting.
Hunt had been in Morven Donnall’s throne room for all of ten seconds and he already hated it.
After the shining white boat had guided them through the mists, he’d expected some sort of summer paradise to lie beyond. Not a cloudy sky above a land of dense green hills and a gray-stoned castle perched on a cliff above a winding—also gray—river. In the distance, thatched-roof cottages marked farmsteads, and a small city of two- and three-story buildings crusted the hill, up to the castle itself.
No skyscrapers. No highways. No cars. The lamps he could make out were flame, not firstlight.
The boat sailed down the river toward the cliff, entering the castle through a yawning cave at its base. Everyone had stayed silent throughout the journey, assuming the stag on the prow had ears that worked as well as its mouth, and could broadcast every word to the male waiting in the castle for them.
A male now seated before them, on a throne seemingly crafted from a single set of antlers. The beast who’d grown them had to have been colossal, the likes of which didn’t exist elsewhere on Midgard. Did stags that big roam around here? The thought was … not comforting.
But neither were the shadows that curled like snakes around the king, wild and twining. A coiled crown of them sat atop Morven’s dark head, blacker than the Pit.
Bryce and Ruhn stood at the head of their little group, and Hunt swapped a look with Baxian, whose frown told Hunt he was deeply unimpressed by this place.
“Could use a reno, if you ask me,” Tharion muttered from Hunt’s other side, and Hunt’s mouth twitched upward.
The mer had some nerve, cracking jokes when he’d just acted directly against the Ocean Queen’s orders. Yeah, Hunt was glad to have Ketos with them, but fuck—what had the mer been thinking, jumping into the boat?
Hunt knew what he’d been thinking, actually. And didn’t blame the mer for his choice, but they had enough enemies out there as it was. If this somehow provoked the Ocean Queen to work against them …
From the glares the others kept throwing Ketos’s way, they weren’t happy about this development, either. But right now, they had another ruler to deal with.
“You bring traitors and enemies of the empire to my home,” the Fae King intoned. The shadows around him halted their twining—predators readying to attack.
But Bryce pointed to herself, then to Ruhn, the portrait of innocent confusion, and said, “Are you talking to me or him?”
Baxian ducked his head, as if trying not to smile. Hunt felt inclined to do the same, but he didn’t dare take his focus off the stone-faced ruler or the shadows at his command.
“This male”—a disdainful look at Ruhn—“has been disowned by his father. You are the only royal standing before me.”
“Oof,” Bryce said to Ruhn. “So harsh.” Ruhn’s eyes glittered, but he said nothing. She gestured to the dim, small castle around them. “You know, I’m surprised by all this doom and gloom. Cormac said it’d be nicer.”
Morven’s dark eyes flashed. The shadow-crown atop his head seemed to darken further. “That name is no longer recognized or acknowledged here.”
“Yeah?” Ruhn said, crossing his arms. “Well, it is with us. Cormac gave his life to make this world a better place.”
“He was a liar and a traitor—not just to the empire, but to his birthright.”
“And we can’t have that,” Bryce crooned. “All that precious breeding stock—gone.”
“I will remind you that royal you might be, but you are still female. And Fae females speak only when spoken to.”
Bryce smiled slowly.
“Now you’ve done it,” Hunt grumbled, and decided it was a good time to step up to his mate’s side. He said to the king, “Telling her to shut up doesn’t end well for anyone. Trust me.”
“I will not be addressed by a slave,” Morven seethed, nodding toward Hunt’s wrist, the mark barely visible past his black sleeve. Then he nodded to Hunt’s haloed brow. “Least of all a Fallen angel, disgraced by the world.”
“Oh boy,” Bryce said, sighing at the ceiling. She whirled to their group. “Okay, let’s do a head count. If you’re disowned, disgraced, or both, raise your hand.”
Tharion, Baxian, Lidia, Hunt, and Ruhn raised their hands. Bryce surveyed Flynn and Dec, both still in their usual black jeans and T-shirts, and sighed again. She gestured expansively, giving them the floor.
Flynn smirked, sauntering to Bryce’s side. “Far as I know, I’m still my father’s heir. Good to see you again, Morven.”
Hunt could have sworn Morven’s shadows hissed. “It would be in your best interests, Tristan Flynn, to speak to me with the utmost respect.”
“Oh?” Flynn crossed his arms, brimming with entitled arrogance.
Morven motioned to someone behind them, the delicate silver embroidery along the wrists and collar of his immaculately cut black jacket gleaming in the firelight, and Hunt whirled as two hulking guards prowled from the shadows. He hadn’t sensed them, hadn’t heard them—
From Tharion’s and Baxian’s shocked faces, he knew they were equally surprised.
But Ruhn, Flynn, and Declan glowered. Like they recognized the approaching males, both towering and armed to the teeth. They were clearly twins.
The Murder Twins Ruhn had mentioned, capable of prying into minds as they saw fit.
But that wasn’t Hunt’s top concern—not yet.
Because between them, in black leggings and a white sweater, light brown hair down around her face … Hunt had no idea who the Fae female was. She was fuming, though, outright seething at the guards, the king, and—
“What the fuck?” Flynn exploded.
“Sathia?” Declan said, gaping.
“It seems,” Morven drawled as the Murder Twins dragged the Fae female forward, their grips white-knuckled on her arms, hard enough to bruise, “that your sister has landed in a heap of trouble, Tristan Flynn.”
