“I’m sorry you lost yours.”

Bryce nodded her thanks, going back to stirring. “I know people don’t get it. It’s just … a light went out inside me when it happened. Danika wasn’t my sister, or my lover. But she was the one person I could be myself around and never feel judged. The one person that I knew would always pick up the phone, or call me back. She was the one person who made me feel brave because no matter what happened, no matter how bad or embarrassing or shitty it was, I knew that I had her in my corner. That if it all went to Hel, I could talk to her and it would be fine.”

Her eyes gleamed, and it was all he could do to not cross the few feet between them and grab her hand as she continued. “But it … It’s not fine. I will never talk to her again. I think people expect me to be over it by now. But I can’t. Anytime I get anywhere close to the truth of my new reality, I want to space out again. To not have to be me. I can’t fucking dance anymore because it reminds me of her—of all the dancing we did together in clubs or on the streets or in our apartment or dorm. I won’t let myself dance anymore because it brought me joy, and … And I didn’t, I don’t, want to feel those things.” She swallowed. “I know it sounds pathetic.”

“It’s not,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry I dumped my baggage in your lap.”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “You can dump your baggage in my lap anytime, Quinlan.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “You made it sound gross.”

“You said it first.” Her mouth twitched. Damn, if the smile didn’t make his chest tighten.

But Hunt just said, “I know you’ll keep going forward, Quinlan—even if it sucks.”

“What makes you so sure of it?”

His feet were silent as he crossed the kitchen. She tipped back her head to hold his stare. “Because you pretend to be irreverent and lazy, but deep down, you don’t give up. Because you know that if you do, then they win. All the asp-holes, as you called them, win. So living, and living well—it’s the greatest fuck you that you can ever give them.”

“That’s why you’re still fighting.”

He ran a hand over the tattoo on his brow. “Yes.”

She let out a hmm, stirring the mixture in the pan again. “Well then, Athalar. I guess it’ll be you and me in the trenches for a while longer.”

He smiled at her, more openly than he’d dared do with anyone in a long while. “You know,” he said, “I think I like the sound of that.”

Her eyes warmed further, a blush stealing across her freckled cheeks. “You said home earlier. At the bar.”

He had. He’d tried not to think about it.

She went on, “I know you’re supposed to live in the barracks or whatever Micah insists on, but if we somehow solve this case … that room is yours, if you want it.”

The offer rippled through him. And he couldn’t think of a single word beyond “Thanks.” It was all that was necessary, he realized.

The rice finished cooking, and she divvied it into two bowls before dumping the meat mixture on top of it. She extended one to him. “Nothing gourmet, but … here. I’m sorry for earlier.”

Hunt studied the steaming heap of meat and rice. He’d seen dogs served fancier meals. But he smiled slightly, his chest inexplicably tightening again. “Apology accepted, Quinlan.”

A cat was sitting on her dresser.

Exhaustion weighed her eyelids, so heavily she could barely raise them.

Eyes like the sky before dawn pinned her to the spot.

What blinds an Oracle, Bryce Quinlan?

Her mouth formed a word, but sleep tugged her back into its embrace.

The cat’s blue eyes simmered. What blinds an Oracle?

She fought to keep her eyes open at the question, the urgency.

You know, she tried to say.

The Autumn King’s only daughter—thrown out like rubbish.

The cat had either guessed it at the temple all those years ago, or followed her home to confirm whose villa she had tried to enter.

He’ll kill me if he knows.

The cat licked a paw. Then make the Drop.

She tried to speak again. Sleep held her firm, but she finally managed, And what then?

The cat’s whiskers twitched. I told you. Come find me.

Her eyelids drooped—a final descent toward sleep. Why?

The cat angled its head. So we can finish this.

53

It was still raining the next morning, which Bryce decided was an omen.

Today would suck. Last night had sucked.

Syrinx refused to emerge from under the sheets, even though Bryce tried to coax him with the promise of breakfast before his walk, and by the time Bryce finally hauled him to the street below, Hunt monitoring from the windows, the rain had gone from a pleasant patter to an outright deluge.

A fat hoptoad squatted in the corner of the building doorway, under the slight overhang, waiting for any small, unfortunate Vanir to fly past. He eyed Bryce and Syrinx as they splashed by, earning a whiskery huff from the latter, and sidled closer to the side of the building.

“Creep,” she murmured above the drumming rain on the hood of her coat, feeling the hoptoad watch them down the block. For a creature no bigger than her fist, they found ways to be menaces. Namely to all manner of sprites. Even confined to the library, Lehabah loathed and dreaded them.

Despite her navy raincoat, her black leggings and white T-shirt were soon soaked. As if the rain somehow went up from the ground. It pooled in her green rain boots, too, squelching with every step she made through the lashing rain, the palms swaying and hissing overhead.

The rainiest spring on record, the news had proclaimed last night. She didn’t doubt it.

The hoptoad was still there when they returned, Syrinx having completed his morning routine in record time, and Bryce might or might not have gone out of her way to stomp in a nearby puddle.

The hoptoad had stuck out his tongue at her, but flopped away.

Hunt was standing at the stove, cooking something that smelled like bacon. He glanced over his shoulder while she removed her raincoat, dripping all over the floor. “You hungry?”

“I’m good.”

His eyes narrowed. “You should eat something before we go.”

She waved him off, scooping food into Syrinx’s bowl.

When she stood, she found Hunt extending a plate toward her. Bacon and eggs and thick brown toast. “I watched you pick at your food for five days this past week,” he said roughly. “We’re not starting down that road again.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need a male telling me when to eat.”

“How about a friend telling you that you had an understandably rough night, and you get mean as shit when you’re hungry?”

Bryce scowled. Hunt just kept holding out the plate.

“It’s all right to be nervous, you know,” he said. He nodded toward the paper bag she’d left by the door—Danika’s clothes, folded and ready for analysis. She’d overheard Hunt calling Viktoria thirty minutes ago, asking her to get the Mimir tech from the Fae. She’d said Declan already sent it.

Bryce said, “I’m not nervous. They’re just clothes.” He only stared at her. Bryce growled. “I’m not. Let them lose the clothes in Evidence or whatever.”