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The armed guard, ten deep, led him from the cell and into the elevator. Where Pollux Antonius, the golden-haired commander of Sandriel’s triarii, waited, a smile on his tan face.
Hunt knew that dead, cruel smile well. Had tried his best to forget it.
“Miss me, Athalar?” Pollux asked, his clear voice belying the monster lurking within. The Hammer could smash through battlefields and delighted in every second of carnage. Of fear and pain. Most Vanir never walked away. No humans ever had.
But Hunt didn’t let his rage, his hatred for that smirking, handsome visage so much as flicker across his face. A glimmer of annoyance flashed in Pollux’s cobalt eyes, his white wings shifting.
Sandriel waited in the Comitium lobby, the last of the sunlight shining in her curling hair.
The lobby. Not the landing pad levels above. So he might see—
Might see—
Justinian still hung from the crucifix. Rotting away.
“We thought you might want to say goodbye,” Pollux purred in his ear as they crossed the lobby. “The wraith, of course, is at the bottom of the sea, but I’m sure she knows you’ll miss her.”
Hunt let the male’s words flow through him, out of him. They would only be the start. Both from the Malleus and from Sandriel herself.
The Archangel smiled at Hunt as they approached, the cruelty on her face making Pollux’s smirk look downright pleasant. But she said nothing as she turned on her heel toward the lobby doors.
An armed transport van idled outside, back doors flung wide. Waiting for him, since he sure as fuck couldn’t fly. From the mocking gleam in Pollux’s eyes, Hunt had a feeling he knew who would be accompanying him.
Angels from the Comitium’s five buildings filled the lobby.
He noted Micah’s absence—coward. The bastard probably didn’t want to sully himself by witnessing the horror he’d inflicted. But Isaiah stood near the heart of the gathered crowd, his expression grim. Naomi gave Hunt a grave nod.
It was all she dared, the only farewell they could make.
The angels silently watched Sandriel. Pollux. Him. They hadn’t come to taunt, to witness his despair and humiliation. They, too, had come to say goodbye.
Every step toward the glass doors was a lifetime, was impossible. Every step was abhorrent.
He had done this, brought this upon himself and his companions, and he would pay for it over and over and—
“Wait!” The female voice rang out from across the lobby.
Hunt froze. Everyone froze.
“Wait!”
No. No, she couldn’t be here. He couldn’t bear for her to see him like this, knees wobbling and a breath away from puking again. Because Pollux strode beside him, and Sandriel prowled in front of him, and they would destroy her—
But there was Bryce. Running toward them. Toward him.
Fear and pain tightened her face, but her wide eyes were trained on him as she shouted again, to Sandriel, to the entire lobby full of angels, “Wait!”
She was breathless as the crowd parted. Sandriel halted, Pollux and the guards instantly on alert, forcing Hunt to pause with them, too.
Bryce skidded to a stop before the Archangel. “Please,” she panted, bracing her hands on her knees, her ponytail drooping over a shoulder as she tried to catch her breath. No sign of that limp. “Please, wait.”
Sandriel surveyed her like she would a gnat buzzing about her head. “Yes, Bryce Quinlan?”
Bryce straightened, still panting. Looked at Hunt for a long moment, for eternity, before she said to the Archangel of northwestern Pangera, “Please don’t take him.”
Hunt could barely stand to hear the plea in her voice. Pollux let out a soft, hateful laugh.
Sandriel was not amused. “He has been gifted to me. The papers were signed yesterday.”
