Bryce tried not to meet their googly black eyes pleading with her through the wooden bars as she parked a few feet away from a nondescript warehouse, removed her helmet, and waited.
Vendors and shoppers alike eyed her to glean if she was selling or for sale. In the warrens below, carved deep into Midgard’s womb, lay three different levels just for flesh. Mostly human; mostly living, though she’d heard of some places that specialized in certain tastes. Every fetish could be bought; no taboo was too foul. Half-breeds were prized: they could heal faster and better than full-humans. A smarter long-term investment. And occasional Vanir were enslaved and bound with so many enchantments that they had no hope of escape. Only the wealthiest could afford to purchase a few hours with them.
Bryce checked the time on her scooter’s dash clock. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the black leather seat.
The Umbra Mortis slammed to the ground, cracking the cobblestones in a rippling circle.
Hunt’s eyes practically glowed as he said, in full view of those cowering along the street, “I am going to kill you.”
18
Hunt stormed toward Bryce, stepping over the cobblestones fragmented from his landing. He’d detected her lilac-and-nutmeg scent on the wind the moment she’d stepped outside the back door of her building, and when he’d discovered where, precisely, she was driving on that scooter …
Bryce had the nerve to push back the sleeve of her leather jacket, frown at her bare wrist as if she were reading a gods-damned watch, and say, “You’re two minutes late.”
He was going to throttle her. Someone should have done it a long fucking time ago.
Bryce smiled in a way that said she’d like to see him try, and sauntered toward him, scooter and helmet left behind.
Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.
Hunt growled, “There’s no way that scooter is there when we get back.”
Bryce batted her eyelashes, fluffing out her helmet hair. “Good thing you’ve made such a big entrance. No one would dare touch it now. Not with the Umbra Mortis as my wrathful companion.”
Indeed, people shrank from his gaze, some stepping behind the stacked crates as Bryce aimed for one of the open doors into the labyrinth of subterraneanly interconnected warehouses that made up the blocks of the district.
Even Micah didn’t station legionaries here. The Meat Market had its own laws and methods of enforcing them.
Hunt ground out, “I told you that there are protocols to follow if we want to stand a chance of contacting the Viper Queen—”
“I’m not here to contact the Viper Queen.”
“What?” The Viper Queen had ruled the Meat Market for longer than anyone could remember. Hunt made a point—all the angels, whether civilians or legionaries, made a point—of staying the fuck away from the serpentine shifter, whose snake form, rumor claimed, was a true horror to behold. Before Bryce could answer, Hunt said, “I’m growing tired of this bullshit, Quinlan.”
She bared her teeth. “I’m sorry,” she seethed, “if your fragile ego can’t handle that I know what I’m fucking doing.”
Hunt opened and closed his mouth. Fine, he’d misjudged her earlier today, but she hadn’t exactly given him any hint of being remotely interested in this investigation. Or that she wasn’t trying to hinder it.
Bryce continued through the open doors to the warehouse without saying another word.
Being in the 33rd—or any legion—was as good as putting a target on your back, and Hunt checked that his weapons were in place in the cleverly constructed sheaths along his suit as he followed her.
The reek of bodies and smoke coated his face like oil. Hunt tucked in his wings tightly.
Whatever fear he’d instilled in people on the streets was of no consequence inside the market, packed with ramshackle stalls and vendors and food stands, smoke drifting throughout, the tang of blood and spark of magic acrid in his nostrils. And above it all, against the far wall of the enormous space, was a towering mosaic, the tiles taken from an ancient temple in Pangera, restored and re-created here in loving detail, despite its gruesome depiction: cloaked and hooded death, the skeleton’s face grinning out from the cowl, a scythe in one hand and an hourglass in the other. Above its head, words had been crafted in the Republic’s most ancient language:
Memento Mori.
Remember that you will die. It was meant to be an invitation for merriment, to seize each moment as if it were one’s last, as if tomorrow were not guaranteed, even for slow-aging Vanir. Remember that you will die, and enjoy each pleasure the world has to offer. Remember that you will die, and none of this illegal shit will matter anyway. Remember that you will die, so who cares how many people suffer from your actions?