You know, she tried to say.
The Autumn King’s only daughter—thrown out like rubbish.
The cat had either guessed it at the temple all those years ago, or followed her home to confirm whose villa she had tried to enter.
He’ll kill me if he knows.
The cat licked a paw. Then make the Drop.
She tried to speak again. Sleep held her firm, but she finally managed, And what then?
The cat’s whiskers twitched. I told you. Come find me.
Her eyelids drooped—a final descent toward sleep. Why?
The cat angled its head. So we can finish this.
53
It was still raining the next morning, which Bryce decided was an omen.
Today would suck. Last night had sucked.
Syrinx refused to emerge from under the sheets, even though Bryce tried to coax him with the promise of breakfast before his walk, and by the time Bryce finally hauled him to the street below, Hunt monitoring from the windows, the rain had gone from a pleasant patter to an outright deluge.
A fat hoptoad squatted in the corner of the building doorway, under the slight overhang, waiting for any small, unfortunate Vanir to fly past. He eyed Bryce and Syrinx as they splashed by, earning a whiskery huff from the latter, and sidled closer to the side of the building.
“Creep,” she murmured above the drumming rain on the hood of her coat, feeling the hoptoad watch them down the block. For a creature no bigger than her fist, they found ways to be menaces. Namely to all manner of sprites. Even confined to the library, Lehabah loathed and dreaded them.
Despite her navy raincoat, her black leggings and white T-shirt were soon soaked. As if the rain somehow went up from the ground. It pooled in her green rain boots, too, squelching with every step she made through the lashing rain, the palms swaying and hissing overhead.
The rainiest spring on record, the news had proclaimed last night. She didn’t doubt it.
The hoptoad was still there when they returned, Syrinx having completed his morning routine in record time, and Bryce might or might not have gone out of her way to stomp in a nearby puddle.
The hoptoad had stuck out his tongue at her, but flopped away.
Hunt was standing at the stove, cooking something that smelled like bacon. He glanced over his shoulder while she removed her raincoat, dripping all over the floor. “You hungry?”
“I’m good.”
His eyes narrowed. “You should eat something before we go.”
She waved him off, scooping food into Syrinx’s bowl.
When she stood, she found Hunt extending a plate toward her. Bacon and eggs and thick brown toast. “I watched you pick at your food for five days this past week,” he said roughly. “We’re not starting down that road again.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need a male telling me when to eat.”
“How about a friend telling you that you had an understandably rough night, and you get mean as shit when you’re hungry?”
Bryce scowled. Hunt just kept holding out the plate.
“It’s all right to be nervous, you know,” he said. He nodded toward the paper bag she’d left by the door—Danika’s clothes, folded and ready for analysis. She’d overheard Hunt calling Viktoria thirty minutes ago, asking her to get the Mimir tech from the Fae. She’d said Declan already sent it.
Bryce said, “I’m not nervous. They’re just clothes.” He only stared at her. Bryce growled. “I’m not. Let them lose the clothes in Evidence or whatever.”
“Then eat.”
“I don’t like eggs.”
His mouth twitched upward. “I’ve seen you eat about three dozen of them.”
Their gazes met and held. “Who taught you to cook, anyway?” He sure as Hel was a better cook than she was. The pitiful dinner she’d made him last night was proof.
“I taught myself. It’s a useful skill for a soldier. Makes you a popular person in any legion camp. Besides, I’ve got two centuries under my belt. It’d be pathetic not to know how to cook at this point.” He held the plate closer. “Eat up, Quinlan. I won’t let anyone lose those clothes.”
She debated throwing the plate in his face, but finally took it and plunked into the seat at the head of the dining table. Syrinx trotted over to her, already gazing expectantly at the bacon.
A cup of coffee appeared on the table a heartbeat later, the cream still swirling inside.
Hunt smirked at her. “Wouldn’t want you to head out to the world without the proper provisions.”
Bryce flipped him off, took his phone from where he’d left it on the table, and snapped a few pictures: the breakfast, the coffee, his stupid smirking face, Syrinx sitting beside her, and her own scowl. But she drank the coffee anyway.