Bryce clutched the phone. “Maximus Tertian was murdered last night.”
“Burning Solas—”
“The same way as Danika and the pack.”
Bryce shut out every hazy image, breathing in the bright, calming scent of the peppermint vapors rippling from the diffuser on her desk. She’d bought the stupid plastic cone two months after Danika had been killed, figuring it couldn’t hurt to try some aromatherapy during the long, quiet hours of the day, when her thoughts swarmed and descended, eating her up from the inside out. By the end of the week, she’d bought three more and placed them throughout her house.
Bryce breathed, “It seems like Philip Briggs might not have killed Danika.”
For two years, part of her had clung to it—that in the days following the murder, they’d found enough evidence to convict Briggs, who’d wanted Danika dead for busting his rebel bomb ring. Briggs had denied it, but it had added up: He’d been caught purchasing black summoning salts in the weeks before his initial arrest, apparently to fuel some sort of new, horrible weapon.
That Danika had then been murdered by a Pit-level demon—which would have required the deadly black salt to summon it into this world—couldn’t have been a coincidence. It seemed quite clear that Briggs had been released, gotten his hands on the black salt, summoned the demon, and set it loose upon Danika and the Pack of Devils. It had attacked the 33rd soldier who’d been patrolling the alleyway, and when its work was done, it had been sent back to Hel by Briggs. Though he’d never confessed to it, or what the breed even was, the fact remained that the demon hadn’t been seen again in two years. Since Briggs had been locked up. Case closed.
For two years, Bryce had clung to those facts. That even though her world had fallen apart, the person responsible was behind bars. Forever. Deserving of every horror his jailors inflicted on him.
Jesiba let out a long, long breath. “Did the angels accuse you of anything?”
“No.” Not quite. “The Governor is coming here.”
Another pause. “To interrogate you?”
“I hope not.” She liked her body parts where they were. “He wants to talk to you, too.”
“Does Tertian’s father know he’s dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need to make some phone calls,” Jesiba said, more to herself. “Before the Governor comes.” Bryce understood her meaning well enough: So Maximus’s father didn’t show up at the gallery, demanding answers. Blaming Bryce for his death. It’d be a mess.
Bryce wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs. “The Governor will be here soon.”
Faint tapping sounded on the iron archives door before Lehabah whispered, “BB? Are you all right?”
Bryce put a hand over the mouthpiece of her phone. “Go back to your post, Lele.”
“Were those two angels?”
Bryce ground her teeth. “Yes. Go downstairs. Keep Syrinx quiet.”
Lehabah let out a sigh, audible through six inches of iron. But the fire sprite didn’t speak further, suggesting she’d either returned to the archives beneath the gallery or was still eavesdropping. Bryce didn’t care, as long as she and the chimera stayed quiet.
Jesiba was asking, “When does Micah get there?”
“Eight minutes.”
Jesiba considered. “All right.” Bryce tried not to gape at the fact that she didn’t push for more time—especially with a client’s death in the balance.
But even Jesiba knew not to screw around with an Archangel. Or maybe she’d finally found a scrap of empathy where Danika’s murder was concerned. She sure as Hel hadn’t demonstrated it when she’d ordered Bryce to get back to work or be turned into a pig two weeks after Danika’s death.
Jesiba said, “I don’t need to tell you to make sure everything is on lockdown.”
“I’ll double-check.” But she’d made sure before the angels had even set foot in the gallery.
“Then you know what to do, Quinlan,” Jesiba said, the sound of rustling sheets or clothes filling the background. Two male voices grumbled in protest. Then the line went dead.
Blowing out a breath, Bryce launched into motion.
11
The Archangel rang the buzzer precisely seven minutes later.
Calming her panting, Bryce scanned the gallery for the tenth time, confirming that all was in place, the art dust-free, any contraband stored below—
Her legs felt spindly, the old ache in her thigh clawing at the bone, but her hands remained steady as she reached the front door and hauled it open.