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Bryce crawled for the front door, broken glass tinkling. Power, hollow and cold, thrummed at her fingertips.
She grabbed the handle and hoisted herself upright. Yanked the door open to the golden light of late afternoon.
But she did not go through it.
That was not what Lehabah had bought her time to do.
Hunt knew Lehabah was killed instantly, as surely as a torch plunged into a bucket of water.
The tidal wave threw the nøkk onto the mezzanine, where it thrashed, choking on the air as it ate away its skin. It even blasted Micah back into the bathroom.
Hunt just stared and stared. The sprite was gone.
“Shit,” Ruhn was whispering.
“Where’s Bryce?” Fury asked.
The main floor of the gallery was empty. The front door lay open, but—
“Holy fuck,” Flynn whispered.
Bryce was sprinting up the stairs. To Jesiba’s office. Only synth fueled that sprint. Only that kind of drug could override pain. And reason.
Bryce set Syrinx on the ground as she entered the office—and then leapt over the desk. To the disassembled gun mounted on the wall above it.
The Godslayer Rifle.
“She’s going to kill him,” Ruhn whispered. “She’s going to kill him for what he did to Danika and the pack.” Before she succumbed to the synth, Bryce would offer her friends nothing less than this. Her final moments of clarity. Of her life.
Sabine was silent as death. But she trembled wildly.
Hunt’s knees buckled. He couldn’t watch this. Wouldn’t watch it.
Micah’s power rumbled in the library. Parted the water as he plowed across the space.
Bryce grabbed the four parts of the Godslayer Rifle mounted on the wall and chucked them onto the desk. Unlocked the safe door and reached inside. She pulled out a glass vial and knocked back some sort of potion—another drug? Who knew what the sorceress kept in there?—and then pulled out a slender golden bullet.
It was six inches long, its surface engraved with a grinning, winged skull on one side. On the other, two simple words:
Memento Mori.
Remember that you will die. They now seemed more of a promise than the mild reminder from the Meat Market.
Bryce clenched the bullet between her teeth as she hauled the first piece of the rifle toward her. Fitted the second.
Micah surged up the stairs, death incarnate.
Bryce whirled toward the open interior window. She threw out a hand, and the third piece of the rifle—the barrel—flew from the desk into her splayed fingers, borne on magic she did not naturally possess, thanks to the synth coursing through her veins. A few movements had her locking it into place.
She ran for the shattered window, assembling the rifle as she went, summoning the final piece from the desk on an invisible wind, that golden bullet still clenched in her teeth.
Hunt had never seen anyone assemble a gun without looking at it, running toward a target. As if she had done it a thousand times.
She had, Hunt remembered.
Bryce might have been fathered by the Autumn King, but she was Randall Silago’s daughter. And the legendary sharpshooter had taught her well.
Bryce clicked the last piece into place and dropped into a slide, finally loading the bullet. She careened into a stop before the gaping window, rising onto her knees as she braced the Godslayer against her shoulder.
