A low laugh whispered behind her, and Bryce found the Helhound now leaning against the wall opposite the cells, beside a large TV.
“I take it I’ll be seeing more of you than I’d like,” Bryce said.
Baxian sketched a bow. He wore lightweight black armor made of overlapping plates. It reminded her of a reptilian version of Hunt’s suit. “Maybe you’ll give me a tour.”
“Keep dreaming,” Hunt muttered.
The Helhound’s dark eyes gleamed. He turned on his heel and said before entering the elevator, “Glad someone finally put a bullet through Micah’s head.”
Bryce stared after him in stunned silence. Had he come down here for any reason other than to say that? Hunt whooshed out a breath. Pollux remained pointedly silent in his cell.
Bryce gripped the bars of Hunt’s cell. “No more fights.”
“If I say yes, can we go home now?” He gave her a mournful pout almost identical to Syrinx’s begging.
Bryce suppressed her smile. “Not my call.”
A fair female voice floated from an intercom in the ceiling. “I’ve seen enough. He’s free to go, Miss Quinlan.” The bars hissed, the door unlocking with a clank.
Bryce said to the ceiling, “Thank you.”
Pollux growled from his cell, “And what of me? I didn’t start this fight.” The shithead had balls. Bryce would give him that.
Celestina answered coolly, “You also didn’t do anything to defuse it.”
“Forgive me for fighting back while being pummeled by a brute.”
From the corner of her eye, Bryce could have sworn Hunt was grinning wickedly.
The Governor said, voice taking on a no-bullshit sharpness, “We shall discuss this later.” Pollux was wise enough not to snap a reply. The Archangel went on, “Keep Athalar in line, Miss Quinlan.”
Bryce waved at the camera mounted beside the TV. When Celestina didn’t answer, Bryce stepped back to allow Hunt out of the cell. He limped toward her, badly enough that she looped her arm around his waist as they aimed for the elevator.
Pollux sneered from his cell, “You two mongrels deserve each other.”
Bryce blew him a kiss.
11
Tharion needed a new job.
Honestly, even years into the position, he had no idea how he’d wound up in charge of the River Queen’s intelligence. His schoolmates probably laughed every time his name came up: a thoroughly average, if not lazy, student, he’d gotten his passing grades mostly through charming his teachers. He had little interest in history or politics or foreign languages, and his favorite subject in school had been lunch.
Maybe that had primed him. People were far more inclined to talk over food. Though anytime he’d tortured an enemy, he’d puked his guts up afterward. Fortunately, he’d learned that a cold beer, some mirthroot, and a few rounds of poker usually got him what he needed.
And this: research.
Normally, he’d tap one of his analysts to pore over his current project, but the River Queen wanted this kept secret. As he sat before the computer in his office, all it took was a few keystrokes to access what he wanted: Sofie Renast’s email account.
Declan Emmet had set up the system for him: capable of hacking into any non-imperial email within moments. Emmet had charged him an arm and a fin for it, but it had proved more than useful. The first time Tharion had used it had been to help track down his sister’s murderer.
The sick fuck had emailed himself photos of his victims. Even what Tharion had done to him afterward hadn’t erased the image seared into his brain of his sister’s brutalized body.
Tharion swallowed, looking toward the wall of glass that opened into clear cobalt waters. An otter shot past, yellow vest blazingly bright in the river water, a sealed tube clenched between his little fangs.
A creature of both worlds. Some of the messenger otters dwelled here, in the Blue Court deep beneath the Istros, a small metropolis both exposed and sealed off from the water around them. Other otters lived Above, in the bustle and chaos of Crescent City proper.
Tharion couldn’t ever move Above, he reminded himself. His duties required him here, at the River Queen’s beck and call. Tharion peered at his bare feet, digging them into the cream shag carpet beneath his desk. He’d been in human form for nearly a day now. He’d have to enter the water soon or risk losing his fins.
His parents found it odd that he’d chosen to live in one of the dry glass-and-metal buildings anchored into a sprawling platform at the bottom of the river, and not near them in the network of underwater caves that doubled as apartments for the mer. But Tharion liked TV. Liked eating food that wasn’t soggy at best, cold and wet at worst. He liked sleeping in a warm bed, sprawled over the covers and pillows, and not tucked into a seaweed hammock swinging in the currents. And since living on land wasn’t an option, this underwater building had become his best bet.