That roaring fire in her veins halted—and redirected. She wouldn’t lose another friend.
Especially not Hunt. Never Hunt.
No matter what he had done, what and who he’d chosen, even if this was the last she would ever see of him … she wouldn’t let this happen. He could go to Hel afterward, but she would do this. For him.
Syrinx whined, pacing in a circle, claws clicking on the wood floor.
“I promised Fury not to do anything stupid,” Bryce said, her eyes on Syrinx’s branded-out tattoo. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do something smart.”
71
Hunt had a night to puke out his guts.
One night in that cell, likely the last bit of security he’d have for the rest of his existence.
He knew what would happen after the Summit. When Sandriel took him back to her castle in the misty, mountainous wilds of northwestern Pangera. To the gray-stoned city in its heart.
He’d lived it for more than fifty years, after all.
She’d left the photo feed up on the hallway TV screen, so he could see Bryce over and over and over. See the way Bryce had looked at him by the end, like he wasn’t a complete waste of life.
It wasn’t just to torture him with what he’d lost.
It was a reminder. Of who would be targeted if he disobeyed. If he resisted. If he fought back.
By dawn, he’d stopped puking. Had washed his face in the small sink. A change of clothes had arrived for him. His usual black armor. No helmet.
His back itched incessantly as he dressed, the cloth scraping against the wings that were taking form. Soon they’d be fully regenerated. A week of careful physical therapy after that and he’d be in the skies.
If Sandriel ever let him out of her dungeons.
She’d lost him once, to pay off her debts. He had few illusions that she’d allow it to happen again. Not until she found a way to break him for how he’d targeted her forces on Mount Hermon. How he and Shahar had come so close to destroying her completely.
It wasn’t until nearly sunset that they came for him. As if Sandriel wanted him stewing all day.
Hunt let them shackle him again with the gorsian stones. He knew what the stones would do if he so much as moved wrong. Disintegration of blood and bone, his brain turned into soup before it leaked out his nose.
The armed guard, ten deep, led him from the cell and into the elevator. Where Pollux Antonius, the golden-haired commander of Sandriel’s triarii, waited, a smile on his tan face.
Hunt knew that dead, cruel smile well. Had tried his best to forget it.
“Miss me, Athalar?” Pollux asked, his clear voice belying the monster lurking within. The Hammer could smash through battlefields and delighted in every second of carnage. Of fear and pain. Most Vanir never walked away. No humans ever had.
But Hunt didn’t let his rage, his hatred for that smirking, handsome visage so much as flicker across his face. A glimmer of annoyance flashed in Pollux’s cobalt eyes, his white wings shifting.
Sandriel waited in the Comitium lobby, the last of the sunlight shining in her curling hair.
The lobby. Not the landing pad levels above. So he might see—
Might see—
Justinian still hung from the crucifix. Rotting away.
“We thought you might want to say goodbye,” Pollux purred in his ear as they crossed the lobby. “The wraith, of course, is at the bottom of the sea, but I’m sure she knows you’ll miss her.”
Hunt let the male’s words flow through him, out of him. They would only be the start. Both from the Malleus and from Sandriel herself.
The Archangel smiled at Hunt as they approached, the cruelty on her face making Pollux’s smirk look downright pleasant. But she said nothing as she turned on her heel toward the lobby doors.
An armed transport van idled outside, back doors flung wide. Waiting for him, since he sure as fuck couldn’t fly. From the mocking gleam in Pollux’s eyes, Hunt had a feeling he knew who would be accompanying him.
Angels from the Comitium’s five buildings filled the lobby.
He noted Micah’s absence—coward. The bastard probably didn’t want to sully himself by witnessing the horror he’d inflicted. But Isaiah stood near the heart of the gathered crowd, his expression grim. Naomi gave Hunt a grave nod.
It was all she dared, the only farewell they could make.
The angels silently watched Sandriel. Pollux. Him. They hadn’t come to taunt, to witness his despair and humiliation. They, too, had come to say goodbye.
Every step toward the glass doors was a lifetime, was impossible. Every step was abhorrent.