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The tug of the water relented. Bryce’s strokes became easier, her pace faster.
And then she was in the pool, the water still and light compared to the raging beast behind her. She clawed at the rocky shore, hauling herself onto it.
Rocks scraped against each other beside her, and then Nesta’s heavy, wet breathing sounded. “What …” Nesta panted. “The …” Another breath. “Fuck.”
Bryce inhaled all that beautiful, wonderful air, even as intense cold began to shake through her very bones. “The star said to go this way,” she managed to say.
“Some warning would have been good,” Nesta growled.
Bryce rose onto her elbows, gasping down breath after breath. “Why? You would have tried to talk me out of it.”
“Because,” Nesta bit out, wiping the water from her eyes as she got to her knees, “we could have come down here without having to get wet. I’m not to let you out of my sight—not even for a moment, so I had no choice but to go after you. But since you jumped in so damned fast … Now we’re freezing.”
“How could we have reached here without getting wet?” Bryce asked, shuddering with cold, teeth already clacking against each other.
Nesta rolled her eyes and said to the shadows, “You might as well come out now.”
Bryce whirled on her knees, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there as Azriel landed from above them.
His wings were spread so wide they nearly touched either side of the cavern, and the black dagger hung at his hip, its dark hilt gleaming faintly in the light of her star. And peeking above a broad shoulder, its matching dark hilt like shadow given form, was the Starsword.
* * *
“What the fuck do you mean Bryce isn’t in Hel?” Ruhn managed to say around what was left of his tongue, every breath like shards of glass slicing down his throat.
Hunt gave no answer, and Ruhn supposed he hadn’t really expected one, anyway.
Baxian grunted, “Where?” It was about all the angel could get out, Ruhn realized.
“Dunno,” Hunt said, voice gravelly from screaming.
The Hawk had yanked the lever that sent them all plunging, laughing when they’d yelped as their injuries collided with cold stone. As reeking puddles of their own blood and waste splashed onto them. But at least they were on the floor.
Still chained at the wrists and ankles, Ruhn had only been able to lie there, shuddering, tears leaking from his eyes at the relief in his shoulders, his arms, his lungs.
The Hawk had slid a tray of food toward them before he left—but kept it far enough away that they’d have to crawl through their piss and shit to get to it before the rats converged.
Baxian was currently trying to reach the tray, legs pushing against the stones, the half-grown stumps of his wings stained red. He stretched a filthy hand toward the broth and water, and groaned deeply. Blood leaked from a wound in his ribs.
Ruhn wasn’t sure he could eat, though his body screamed for food. He took breath after sawing breath.
The Oracle had told him that the royal bloodline ended with him. Had she seen that he’d wind up here—and never walk out alive? Cold worse than the dungeons’ damp chill crept through him.
He had come to peace with the possibility of this fate for himself a long time ago. Granted, not this particular demise, but an untimely end in some vague sense. But now that Bryce was a true royal, the prophecy shed light on her fate, too. If she hadn’t made it to Hel … perhaps she hadn’t made it anywhere. Thus ending the royal bloodline with both of their deaths.
He couldn’t share his suspicions with Athalar. Couldn’t offer up that bit of despair that would break the Umbra Mortis worse than any of Pollux’s tools. It would be Ruhn’s secret to keep. His own wretched truth, left to fester in his heart.
The smell of stale bread filled his nostrils, rising above the stench as the tray slid in front of him. Splashing through a puddle of—Ruhn didn’t want to know what the liquid was. Though his nose offered up a few unpleasant suggestions.
“Gotta eat,” Hunt said, hands shaking as he brought a cup of broth to his mouth.
“Don’t want us dead, then,” Baxian said, slowly lifting a piece of bread.
“Not yet.” Athalar sipped slowly. Like he didn’t trust his body not to chuck it all up. “Eat, Danaan.”
It was a command, and Ruhn found himself reaching his weak, trembling fingers toward the broth. It took all his focus, all his strength, to raise it to his lips. He could barely taste it. Right—his tongue was still regrowing. He sipped again.
“I don’t know where Bryce is,” Hunt said, voice raw. He picked up a piece of bread with his good hand. The burned fingers on his other hand were twisted at different angles. Some were missing nails.
