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It had taken almost three minutes for the antidote to wholly destroy the synth in Hypaxia’s clinic. Neither Hunt nor the witch-queen took their eyes off Bryce long enough to count the minutes until the synth had vanished from her body entirely.
Bryce walked calmly to the hidden supply closet. Pulled out a red plastic container. And dumped the entire gallon of gasoline on the Governor’s dismembered corpse.
“Holy fuck,” Ruhn whispered, over and over. “Holy fuck.”
The rest of the room didn’t so much as breathe too loudly. Even Sandriel had no words as Bryce grabbed a pack of matches from a drawer in her desk.
She struck one, and tossed it onto the Governor’s body.
Flames erupted. The fireproofing enchantments on the art around her shimmered.
There would be no chance of salvation. Of healing. Not for Micah. Not after what he had done to Danika Fendyr. To the Pack of Devils. And Lehabah.
Bryce stared at the fire, her face still splattered with the Archangel’s blood. And finally, she lifted her eyes. Right to the camera. To the world watching.
Vengeance incarnate. Wrath’s bruised heart. She would bow for no one. Hunt’s lightning sang at the sight of that brutal, beautiful face.
Time sped up, the flames devouring Micah’s body, crisping his wings to cinders. They spat him out as ashes.
Sirens wailed outside the gallery as the Auxiliary pulled up at last.
Bryce slammed the front door shut as the first of the Fae units and wolf packs appeared.
No one, not even Sandriel, spoke a word as Bryce took out the vacuum from the supply closet. And erased the last trace of Micah from the world.
82
A gas explosion, she told the Aux through the intercom, who apparently hadn’t been informed of the details by their superiors. She was fine. Just a private mess to deal with.
No mention of the Archangel. Of the ashes she’d vacuumed, then dumped in the bin out back.
She’d gone up to Jesiba’s office afterward, to hold Syrinx, stroking his fur, kissing his still-damp head, whispering repeatedly, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
He’d eventually fallen asleep in her lap, and when she’d assured herself that his breathing was unlabored, she’d finally pulled her phone from the pocket in the back of her leggings.
She had seven missed calls, all from Jesiba. And a string of messages. She barely comprehended the earlier ones, but the one that had arrived a minute ago said, Tell me that you are all right.
Her fingers were distant, her blood pounded in her ears. But she wrote back, Fine. Did you see what happened?
Jesiba’s reply came a moment later.
Yes. The entire thing. Then the sorceress added, Everyone at the Summit did.
Bryce just wrote back, Good.
She put her phone on silent, tucking it back in her pocket, and ventured down to the watery ruin of the archives.
There was no trace of Lehabah in the mostly submerged library. Not even a smudge of ash.
The nøkk’s corpse lay sprawled on the mezzanine, its dried-out skin flaking away, one clawed hand still gripping the iron bars of the balcony rail.
Jesiba had enough spells on the library that the books and the small tanks and terrariums had been shielded from the wave, though their occupants were near-frantic, but the building itself …
The silence roared around her.
Lehabah was gone. There was no voice at her shoulder, grousing about the mess.
And Danika … She tucked away the truth Micah had revealed. The Horn on her back, healed and functional again. She felt no different—wouldn’t have known it was awake were it not for the horrific blast the Archangel had unleashed. At least a portal hadn’t opened. At least she had that.
