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“Sure. But if you get rid of the Asteri, it’d give you even more power than whatever scheme you had planned that involved my marrying Cormac.”
He adjusted a dial on his device, the light shifting a millimeter to the right. “Does it matter who is in power, so long as the Fae survive?”
“Um, yeah. One option is a parasitic blight upon this world. Let’s not go with that choice.”
He set the device down again. “Explain this … parasite. You mentioned something about the Asteri taking some of our power through the Drop.”
Bryce debated it. He held her stare, seeing that debate rage in her.
Who would he tell, though? At this point, the more people who knew, even the assholes, the better it was. That way the secret couldn’t die with her.
And after all the shit she’d learned and been through … maybe it’d help to lay out all the pieces at once.
So Bryce told him. Everything she’d learned about the Asteri, their history, their feeding patterns, the firstlight and secondlight. Gods, it was worse saying it aloud.
She finished, slumping back in the armchair. “So we’re basically a giant buffet for the Asteri.”
He’d been still and watchful while she’d related the information, but now he said quietly, “Perhaps the Asteri have been taking too much, for too long, from our people. That is why the bloodlines have weakened, generation after generation.” He spoke more to himself than to her, but his eyes snapped to Bryce’s as he said, “So all the water on Midgard is contaminated.”
“I don’t think a filter’s gonna help you, if that’s what you’re planning.”
He cut her a glare. “Yet the Fae in the other world do not have this affliction?”
“No. The Asteri hadn’t developed this nasty little method of theft when they occupied their world.” She rubbed her temples. “Maybe that sword and dagger can cleanse the parasite, though.” She hummed again, as if thinking it over. “Maybe you should let me impale you with them and we can see what happens.”
“You will never understand how they work,” he said flatly.
“So you do?” She let her skepticism show in her voice. “How?”
“You’re not the only one with access to ancient texts. Jesiba Roga’s collection is but a fraction of mine—and a fraction of what lies in Avallen. I have studied the lore long enough to draw some conclusions.”
“Good for you. You’re a genius.”
Fire crackled at his fingertips—the same flame he’d used to burn Ruhn as a kid. She shut down the thought as he warned, “I wouldn’t be so impertinent if I were you. Your survival depends entirely upon my goodwill.”
Oily, churning nausea coursed through her gut. Whatever game or dance they’d been engaging in … he could have this round. “Gods, you’re the worst.”
He picked up a nearby notebook and cracked open its green cover. It was full of scribbling. His research records and thoughts. A stack of paper lay underneath it, also covered with his writing. Leafing through the notebook, his voice was bland as he said, “I tire of you. Take your leave.”
32
Hunt knew what was coming when the Hawk left the door to the dungeons open. Knew it would be bad when they were all dumped to the filthy ground again, Ruhn moaning at what it did to his arm.
All this, to break Hunt to Rigelus’s will. A slow sapping of Hunt’s resolve, to suffer and see these males suffer beside him, to wear him down to this point, so he’d beg them to stop, would offer up anything to make it cease, to save them—
“Get the fuck up,” the Hawk ordered from the doorway as Mordoc and several of his dreadwolves stalked into the chamber. They didn’t wait for Hunt to obey the Hawk’s command before they reached for him, the silver darts in their imperial uniforms glinting.
Hunt bared his teeth. A few of them stepped back at the expression on his face. At the presence of the Umbra Mortis, still unbroken.
Even Mordoc, with all those silver darts crusting his collar, paused, considering.
Hunt’s legs shook, his body roared in pain, but he stood. His barely formed wings twitched, trying to spread in angelic wrath. This might all be his fault, but he’d go down swinging.
“Rigelus requests an audience,” the Hawk drawled, tapping an invisible watch on his slender wrist. “Best not to keep His Holiness waiting.”
Hunt had no idea how Ruhn or Baxian managed to stand beside him. But groaning, hissing, they did. A sidelong glance to Baxian showed him the Helhound’s wings—fully formed, but still as weak as Hunt’s own—were tucked in protectively.
Hunt had little hope either of them would keep their wings today. But losing them again would be better than losing Ruhn. Would Bryce ever forgive him if he let Ruhn die? Would he ever forgive himself?
