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“You were supposed to be good,” Hunt said, voice breaking. “You were supposed to be the good Archangel. And you’re even worse than Micah.” He spat, and it turned to ice before it could hit the snow. “At least he made it clear when he was fucking someone over.”
His lightning thrashed in his veins, looking for a way out.
“Hunt,” Naomi said, “what the Governor did was fucked up, but—”
“She went against Asteri orders to be here,” Isaiah finished. “Let’s get out of the cold and talk—”
“I’m done fucking talking,” Hunt said, and his power stirred. “I am done with Archangels and your fucking bullshit.”
His lightning hissed along the snow. And as his vision flashed, he knew lightning forked across his eyes.
Celestina held up her gloved hands. “I want no quarrel with you, Athalar.”
“Too bad,” Hunt said, and lightning skittered over his tongue. “I want one with you.”
He didn’t give any further warning before he hurled his power at the Archangel. He gave everything, yet it wasn’t enough. His power choked at its limits, restrained by the halo.
A leash to hold demons in check.
It hadn’t worked on the princes. He’d be damned if he allowed it to keep working on him.
Hunt let his power build and build and build. The snow around him melted away.
Apollion had given his essence, his Helfire, to Hunt. And if that made him a son of Hel, so be it.
Hunt closed his eyes, and saw it there—the black band of the halo, imprinted across his very soul. Its scrolling vine of thorns. The spell to contain him.
Everyone knew the enslavement spell couldn’t be undone. Hunt had never even tried. But he was done playing by the Asteri’s rules. By anyone’s rules.
Hunt reached a mental hand toward the black thorns of the halo. Wreathed his fingers in lightning, in Helfire, in the power that was his and only his.
And sliced through it.
The thorns of the halo shivered and bled. Black ink dripped down, dissolving into nothing, gobbled up by the power that was now surging in him, rising up—
Hunt opened his eyes to see Isaiah gaping at him in fear and awe. The halo still marred his friend’s brow.
No more.
Knowing where it was, how to destroy it, made it easier. Hunt reached out a tendril of his power for Isaiah, and before his friend could recoil, he sliced a line through the halo on his brow.
Isaiah hissed, staggering back. A roaring, raging wind rose from his feet as his halo, too, crumbled away from his brow.
Celestina was looking between them, terror stark on her face. “That’s not—that’s not—”
“I suggest you run,” Hunt said, his voice as frozen as the wind that bit at their faces.
But Celestina straightened. Held her ground. And with bravery he didn’t expect, she said, “Why are you here?”
As if he’d be distracted by the question, as if it’d keep her fate at bay—
Bryce answered for him. “To open the Northern Rift to Hel.”
Naomi whirled on Bryce and said, “What?”
Isaiah, too stunned at his halo’s removal to pay much attention to the conversation, was staring at his hands—as if he could see the unleashed power they now commanded.
Celestina shook her head. “You’ve lost your minds.” She planted her feet, and white, shining power glowed around her. “You want to fight me, Athalar, go ahead. But you’re not opening the Rift.”
