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Bryce wrapped her arms around herself. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
Hunt didn’t deny it.
“Is Amelie dead?” There was fear—actual fear—in her face.
“No.” The word rumbled from him, lightning hissing in its wake.
“You …” She rubbed at her face. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t tell me I’m an alphahole, or possessive and aggressive or whatever terms you use.”
She lowered her hands, her face stark with dread. “You’ll get in so much trouble for this, Hunt. There’s no way you won’t—”
It was fear for him. Terror for him.
Hunt crossed the distance between them. Took her hands. “You’re my mirror. You said so yourself.”
He was shaking. For some reason, he was shaking as he waited for her to respond.
Bryce looked at her hands, gripped in his, as she answered, “Yes.”
The next morning, Bryce messaged her brother. What’s your medwitch’s number?
Ruhn sent it immediately, no questions asked.
Bryce called her office a minute later, hands shaking. The fair-voiced medwitch could squeeze her in—immediately. So Bryce didn’t give herself the time to reconsider as she slid on her running shorts and a T-shirt, then messaged Jesiba:
Medical appointment this morning. Be at the gallery by lunch.
She found Hunt making breakfast. His brows rose when she just stared at him.
“I know where we can get kristallos venom for the medwitch’s antidote tests,” she said.
61
The medwitch’s immaculately clean white clinic was small, not like the larger practices Bryce had visited in the past. And rather than the standard blue neon sign that jutted over nearly every other block in this city, the broom-and-bell insignia had been rendered in loving care on a gilded wooden sign hanging outside. About the only old-school-looking thing about the place.
The door down the hallway behind the counter opened, and the medwitch appeared, her curly dark hair pulled back into a bun that showed off her elegant brown face. “You must be Bryce,” the woman said, her full smile instantly setting Bryce at ease. She glanced to Hunt, giving him a shallow nod of recognition. But she made no mention of their encounter in the night garden before she said to Bryce, “Your partner can come back with you if you would like. The treatment room can accommodate his wings.”
Hunt looked at Bryce, and she saw the question in his expression: Do you want me with you?
Bryce smiled at the witch. “My partner would love to come.”
The white treatment room, despite the clinic’s small size, contained all the latest technology. A bank of computers sat against one wall, the long mechanical arm of a surgical light was set against the other. The third wall held a shelf of various tonics and potions and powders in sleek glass vials, and a chrome cabinet on the fourth wall likely possessed the actual surgical instruments.
A far cry from the wood-paneled shops Hunt had visited in Pangera, where witches still made their own potions in iron cauldrons that had been passed down through the generations.
The witch idly patted the white leather examination table in the center of the room. Hidden panels gleamed in its plastic sides, extensions for Vanir of all shapes and sizes.
Hunt claimed the lone wooden chair by the cabinet as Bryce hopped onto the table, her face slightly pale.
“You said on the phone that you received this wound from a kristallos demon, and it was never healed—the venom is still in you.”
“Yes,” Bryce said quietly. Hunt hated every bit of pain that laced that word.
“And you give me permission to use the venom I extract in my experiments as I search for a synth antidote?”
Bryce glanced at him, and he nodded his encouragement. “An antidote to synth seems pretty damn important to have,” she said, “so yes, you have my permission.”
