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“Who is that?” Ice formed in the room. No clothing could protect against the cold this demon brought with him. It pierced through every layer, snatching the breath from Hunt’s chest with clawed fingers. A shuddering inhale was the only sign of Bryce’s discomfort as she remained facing the circle on the other side of the room. The male now contained inside its dark border.
“Aidas,” she said softly.
Hunt had always imagined the Prince of the Chasm as similar to the lower-level demons he’d hunted over the centuries: scales or fangs or claws, brute muscle and snarling with blind animal rage.
Not this slender, pale-skinned … pretty boy.
Aidas’s blond hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves, loose, yet well cut around his fine-boned face. Undoubtedly to show off the eyes like blue opals, framed by thick, golden lashes. Those lashes bobbed once in a cursory blink. Then his full, sensuous mouth parted in a smile to reveal a row of too-white teeth. “Bryce Quinlan.”
Hunt’s hand drifted to his gun. The Prince of the Chasm knew her name—her face. And the way he’d spoken her name was as much greeting as it was question, his voice velvet-soft.
Aidas occupied the fifth level of Hel—the Chasm. He yielded only to two others: the Prince of the Abyss, and the Prince of the Pit, the seventh and mightiest of the demon princes. The Star-Eater himself, whose name was never uttered on this side of the Northern Rift.
No one would dare say his name, not after the Prince of the Pit became the first and only being to ever kill an Asteri. His butchering of the seventh holy star—Sirius, the Wolf Star—during the First Wars remained a favorite ballad around war-camp fires. And what he’d done to Sirius after slaying her had earned him that awful title: Star-Eater.
“You appeared as a cat the last time” was all Bryce said.
All. She. Said.
Hunt dared take his eyes off the Prince of the Chasm to find Bryce bowing her head.
Aidas slid his slender hands into the pockets of his closely tailored jacket and pants—the material blacker than the Chasm in which he resided. “You were very young then.”
Hunt had to plant his feet to keep from swaying. She’d met the prince before—how?
His shock must have been written on his face because she shot him a look that he could only interpret as Calm the fuck down, but said, “I was thirteen—not that young.”
Hunt reined in his grunt that would have suggested otherwise.
Aidas tilted his head to one side. “You were very sad then as well.”
It took Hunt a moment to process it—the words. The bit of history, and the bit of now.
Bryce rubbed her hands together. “Let’s talk about you, Your Highness.”
“I am always happy to do so.”
The cold burned Hunt’s lungs. They could last only minutes at this temperature before their healing abilities started churning. And despite Bryce’s Fae blood, there was a good chance that she might not recover at all. Without having made the Drop, the frostbite would be permanent for Bryce. As would any digits or limbs lost.
She said to the demon prince, “You and your colleagues seem to be getting restless in the dark.”
“Is that so?” Aidas frowned at his polished leather shoes as if he could see all the way down to the Pit. “Perhaps you summoned the wrong prince, for this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Who is summoning the kristallos demon to hunt through this city?” Flat, cutting words. “And what killed Danika Fendyr?”
“Ah yes, we heard of that—how Danika screamed as she was shredded apart.”
Bryce’s beat of silence told Hunt enough about the internal wound that Aidas had pressed. From the smile gracing Aidas’s face, the Prince of the Chasm knew it as well.
She went on, “Do you know what demon did it?”
“Despite what your mythologies claim, I am not privy to the movements of every being in Hel.”
She said tightly, “Do you know, though? Or know who summoned it?”
His golden lashes shimmered as he blinked. “You believe I dispatched it?”
“You would not be standing there if I did.”
