The Hind chuckled, the sound laced with menace. “I’ll find out, you know. I always do.”
“I look forward to it,” Hunt said, stalking toward the doors. A dark figure loomed ahead of them—Baxian. His eyes were on the Hind. Stony, and yet seeking.
She stopped short. The Hind stopped short.
Baxian said, “Lidia.”
The Hind replied flatly, “Baxian.”
“I was looking for you.” He inclined his head to Hunt in dismissal. He’d take over from here.
“Is it to explain why you vanished into the night with Hunt Athalar?” she asked, folding her hands behind her back in a perfect imperial stance. A good little soldier.
Hunt passed Baxian. “Not a word,” Hunt said so softly it was barely more than a breath. Baxian nodded subtly.
Hunt had barely pushed open the doors to the training area when he heard Baxian say carefully to the Hind, as if remembering who she was, “I don’t answer to you.”
Her voice was smooth as silk. “Not to me, or Ephraim, but you still answer to the Asteri.” Her true masters. “Whose will is mine.”
Hunt’s stomach churned. She was right.
And he’d do well to remember it before it was too late.
38
“This is a dumb fucking idea.”
“You really love to say that, Legs.”
Bryce peered at the two-story iron doors in the back alley of the Old Square, the surface embossed with stars and planets and all matter of heavenly objects. “There’s a reason no one comes to the mystics anymore.” Hel, she’d suggested it while working on Danika’s case this spring, but Hunt had convinced her not to come.
The mystics are some dark, fucked-up shit, he’d said.
Bryce glowered at Tharion and Ithan, standing behind her in the alley. “I mean it. What’s behind those doors is not for the faint of heart. Jesiba knows this guy, but even she doesn’t mess with him.”
Ithan countered, “I can’t think of another alternative. The Oracle only sees the future, not present. I need to know what’s going on with Connor.”
Tharion drawled, “If you can’t stomach it, Legs, then sit out here on the curb.”
She sighed through her nose, trying again. “Only lowlifes use the mystics these days.”
They’d had this conversation twice already on the walk over. She was likely going to lose this round as well, but it was worth a shot. If Hunt had been with her, he’d have gotten his point across in that alphahole way of his. But he hadn’t answered his phone.
He’d probably give her Hel for coming here without him.
Bryce sighed to the baking-hot sky. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit, Legs.” Tharion clapped her on the back. Ithan frowned at the doors.
Bryce reached for the door chime, a crescent moon dangling from a delicate iron chain. She yanked it once, twice. An off-kilter ringing echoed.
“This is a really bad idea,” she muttered again.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ithan said, tipping his head back to study the building. The tattoo of Amelie’s pack was glaringly dark in the sun. She wondered if he wanted to tear the flesh off and start anew.
Bryce set the question aside as one of the planets carved in the door—the five-ringed behemoth that was Thurr—swung away, revealing a pale gray eye. “Appointment?”
Tharion held up his BCIU badge. “The Blue Court requires your assistance.”
“Does it, now?” A croaking laugh as that eye—eerily sharp despite the wrinkles around it—fixed on the mer. It narrowed in amusement or pleasure. “One of the river folk. What a treat, what a treat.”
The planet slammed shut, and Tharion stepped onto the slate front step as the doors cracked open a sliver. Cold air rippled out, along with the tang of salt and the smothering dampness of mold.
Ithan trailed Bryce, swearing under his breath at the scent. She twisted, throwing him a reproachful glare. He winced, falling into step beside her with that sunball player’s grace as they entered the cavernous space beyond.
A gray-robed old male stood before them. Not human, but his scent declared nothing other than some sort of Vanir humanoid. His heavy white beard fell to the thin band of rope that served as a belt, his wispy hair long and unbound. Four rings of silver and gold glinted on one of his withered, spotted hands, with small stars blazing in the center of each, trapped in the nearly invisible glass domes.
No—not stars.
Bryce’s stomach turned over at the minuscule hand that pressed against the other side of the glass. There was no mistaking the desperation in that touch.