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A rebellion led by a fellow Archangel and three thousand warriors had been just that. Even though nearly all of his triarii was now made up of the Fallen. Offering them a second chance, apparently. Hunt couldn’t fathom why he’d bother being that merciful.
Micah said, “Sabine is certainly already putting her people on this case and will be visiting my office to tell me precisely what she thinks of the fuckup with Briggs.” An icy glance between them. “I want us to find the murderer, not the wolves.”
Hunt said coolly, “Dead or alive?”
“Alive, preferably. But dead is better than letting the person run free.”
Hunt dared ask, “And will this investigation count toward my quota? It could take months.”
Isaiah tensed. But Micah’s mouth curled upward. For a long moment, he said nothing. Hunt didn’t so much as blink.
Then Micah said, “How about this incentive, Athalar: you solve this case quickly—you solve it before the Summit, and I’ll lower your debts to ten.”
The very wind seemed to halt.
“Ten,” Hunt managed to say, “more assignments?”
It was outrageous. Micah had no reason to offer him anything. Not when his word was all that was needed for Hunt to obey.
“Ten more assignments,” Micah said, as if he hadn’t dropped a fucking bomb into the middle of Hunt’s life.
It could be a fool’s bargain. Micah might draw out those ten assignments over decades, but … Burning fucking Solas.
The Archangel added, “You tell no one about this, Athalar.” That he didn’t bother to also warn Isaiah suggested enough about how much he trusted his commander.
Hunt said, as calmly as he could, “All right.”
Micah’s stare turned merciless, though. He scanned Hunt from head to toe. Then the gallery beneath their booted feet. The assistant within it. Micah growled, “Keep your dick in your pants and your hands to yourself. Or you’ll find yourself without either for a long while.”
Hunt would regrow both, of course. Any immortal who made the Drop could regrow just about anything if they weren’t beheaded or severely mutilated, with arteries bleeding out, but … the recovery would be painful. Slow. And being dickless, even for a few months, wasn’t high up on Hunt’s to-do list.
Fucking around with a half-human assistant was the least of his priorities, anyway, with freedom potentially ten kills away.
Isaiah nodded for both of them. “We’ll keep it professional.”
Micah twisted toward the CBD, assessing the river breeze, his pristine wings twitching. He said to Isaiah, “Be in my office in an hour.”
Isaiah bowed at the waist to the Archangel, a Pangeran gesture that made Hunt’s hackles rise. He’d been forced to do that, at the risk of having his feathers pulled out, burned off, sliced apart. Those initial decades after the Fall had not been kind.
The wings he knew were mounted to the wall in the Asteri throne room were proof.
But Isaiah had always known how to play the game, how to stomach their protocols and hierarchies. How to dress like them, dine and fuck like them. He’d Fallen and risen back to the rank of commander because of it. It wouldn’t surprise anyone if Micah recommended that Isaiah’s halo be removed at the next Governors’ Council with the Asteri after the Winter Solstice.
No assassinating, butchering, or torturing required.
Micah didn’t so much as glance at them before he shot into the skies. Within seconds he’d become a white speck in the sea of blue.
Isaiah blew out a breath, frowning toward the spires atop the five towers of the Comitium, a glass-and-steel crown rising from the heart of the CBD.
“You think there’s a catch?” Hunt asked his friend.
“He doesn’t scheme like that.” Like Sandriel and most of the other Archangels. “He means what he says. He’s got to be desperate, if he wants to give you that kind of motivation.”
“He owns me. His word is my command.”
“With Sandriel coming, maybe he realized it’d be advantageous if you were inclined to be … loyal.”
“Again: slave.”
