Isaiah’s throat worked, and Hunt studied the window—the shining city beyond—to give him privacy. Across the room, Naomi followed his lead.
Celestina couldn’t be serious. This had to be an act.
“I’d like to hit the ground running,” the Governor went on. “Each morning, let’s gather here so you can update me on any news, as well as your plans for the day. Should I have tasks for you or the 33rd, I shall convey them then.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I am aware that you are skilled at hunting demons, and have been employed to do so in the past. If any break into this city, gods forbid, I’d like you to head up the containment and extermination unit against them.”
Hunt jerked his chin in confirmation. Easy enough. Though this spring, dealing with the kristallos had been anything but easy.
Celestina finished, “And should an issue arise before our meeting tomorrow morning, my phone is always on.”
Naomi nodded again. “What time tomorrow?”
“Let’s say nine,” Celestina said. “No need to drag ourselves out of bed simply to look busy.” Hunt blinked at her. “And I’d like the others to get some rest after their journey.”
“Others?” Isaiah asked.
The Archangel frowned slightly. “The rest of the triarii. They were delayed by a few hours due to some bad weather up north.”
All three of them stilled. “What do you mean?” Hunt asked quietly.
“It was in the formal letter you received,” she said to Isaiah, who shook his head.
Celestina’s frown deepened. “The Asteri’s Communications Minister is not usually one to make mistakes. I apologize on their behalf. The Asteri found themselves with a predicament after losing two Archangels, you see. You are all that remains of Micah’s triarii, but Sandriel had a full stable in that regard. I had no triarii of my own in Nena, as the legion there technically answers to the Asteri, but Ephraim wanted to bring his own triarii with him. So rather than have his group get too large, it was split—since ours is so depleted.”
Roaring erupted in Hunt’s head. Sandriel’s triarii. The actual scum of the universe.
They were coming here. To be part of this group. In this city.
A knock sounded on the door, and Hunt twisted as Celestina said, “Come in.”
Lightning crackled at Hunt’s fingertips. The door opened, and in swaggered Pollux Antonius and Baxian Argos.
The Hammer and the Helhound.
10
Absolute quiet settled over the Governor’s office as Hunt and his friends took in the two newcomers.
One was dark-haired and brown-skinned, tall and finely muscled—the Helhound. His jet-black wings shimmered faintly, like a crow’s feathers. But it was the wicked scar snaking down his neck, forking across the column of his throat, that snared the eye.
Hunt knew that scar—he’d given it to the Helhound thirty years ago. Some powers, it seemed, even immortality couldn’t guard against.
Baxian’s obsidian eyes simmered as they met Hunt’s stare.
But Pollux’s cobalt eyes lit with feral delight as he sized up Naomi, then Isaiah, and finally Hunt. Hunt allowed his lightning to flare as he stared down the golden-haired, golden-skinned leader of Sandriel’s triarii. The most brutal, sadistic asshole to have ever walked Midgard’s soil. Motherfucker Number One.
Pollux smirked, slow and satisfied. Celestina was saying something, but Hunt couldn’t hear it.
Couldn’t hear anything except Pollux drawling, “Hello, friends,” before Hunt leapt from his chair and tackled him to the floor.
Ithan Holstrom dabbed a damp washcloth at the last of the cuts healing on his face, wincing. Bryce’s bathroom was exactly as he’d expected it to be: full of at least three kinds of shampoos and conditioners, an array of hair treatments, brushes, curling rods of two different sizes, a blow-dryer left plugged into the wall, half-burned candles, and makeup scattered up and down the marble counter like some glittery bomb had gone off.
It was almost exactly the same as her bathroom at the old apartment. Just being here made his chest tighten. Just smelling this place, smelling her made his chest tighten.
He’d had little to distract himself today, sitting alone with her chimera—Syrinx, Athalar had called him—on the couch, nearly dying of boredom watching daytime TV. He didn’t feel like trawling the news for hours, awaiting a glimpse of the new Archangel. None of the sports channels had interesting coverage on, and he had no desire to listen to those assholes talk anyway.