House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City, #2)

by Sarah J. Maas

rare benefit of being able to switch between human and Vanir identities—and of being a rare human who’d made the Drop.

They had no idea that Sofie also carried with her, hidden in her head, information that could very well be the final piece of this war against the Asteri. The blow that could end it.

She did not glance at her missing fingernails, or the welts, or even feel how numb and stiff her hands were, not as the fence’s power crackled through her. Through her, into her, becoming her. Becoming hers to use as she wished. A thought, and the fence’s power turned outward again, her fingertips sparking where they curled against the metal. The metal turned orange, then red beneath her hand. She sliced her palm down, skin so blisteringly hot it cleaved metal and wire.

She did not turn to tell him that it was not a witch’s power that flowed through her. It was something far more rare.

She closed her eyes, readying herself. Gathering her power. Lights went out on the block around her.

She let the power she’d gathered by the docks unspool. Crackling energy curled at her fingertips and amid the strands of her short brown hair. One of the dreadwolves understood then—matched what he was seeing with the myths Vanir whispered to their children. “She’s a fucking thunderbird!”

The dreadwolf had been only half-right. She was part thunderbird—her great-grandmother had mated with a human long ago, before being executed. The gift, more legend than truth these days, had resurfaced in Sofie.

bullet with a core of gorsian stone—one that would stifle magic.

a mighty white light soared beneath the surface. It wrapped its long arms around the nearest Omega. The white light leapt away a moment later, flying for the next boat. No submersible lights glowed in its wake. On the radar before her, the Omega-boat vanished.

It was Sofie’s strange gift: not only electricity, but firstlight power, too. Energy of any type was hers to command, to suck into herself.

“That one reminds me of Athalar.” Bryce arched a brow, grateful for the change of subject, and twisted toward where he’d pointed. On it, a powerful Fae male stood poised above an anvil, hammer raised skyward in one fist, lightning cracking from the skies, filling the hammer, and flowing down toward the object of the hammer’s intended blow: a sword. Its label read simply: Unknown sculptor. Palmira, circa 125 V.E.

Bryce checked the sliver of writing in the lower right corner. “It just says The Making of the Sword.” Her mother peered at the half-faded etching. “In what language?” Bryce tried to keep her posture relaxed. “The Old Language of the Fae.”

a towering statue of Luna aiming her bow toward the heavens, two hunting dogs at her feet and a stag nuzzling her hip.

expression into neutrality. “What?” Ember stepped closer to the depiction of an army of winged demons swooping down from the skies upon a terrestrial army gathered on the plain below. “This one’s about Hel’s armies arriving to conquer Midgard during the First Wars,”

“This is a piece from a larger collection—likely one that would have wrapped around the entire exterior of a building, each slab telling a different part of the story. This one says: Thus the seven Princes of Hel looked in envy upon Midgard and unleashed their unholy hordes upon our united armies.” “Apparently nothing’s changed in fifteen thousand years,” Ember said, shadows darkening her eyes.

from her phone and grinned. “Badass warrior Jelly Jubilee.” There, hanging on the wall, was a rendering of a pegasus—though not a unicorn-pegasus, like Bryce’s childhood toy—charging into battle. An armored figure, helmet obscuring any telltale features, rode atop the beast, sword upraised.

Bryce had developed a keen awareness of Hunt’s presence, like scenting lightning on the wind. He had only to enter a room and she’d know if he was there by that surge of power in her body. Like her magic, her very blood answered to his.

Fury tucked a strand of her hair behind an ear. From all appearances, Axtar seemed human. But she was definitely Vanir—of what breed, what House, Hunt had no idea. Flame and Shadow seemed likeliest, but more than that, he couldn’t guess.

Ruhn Danaan knew three things with absolute certainty: He had smoked so much mirthroot that he couldn’t feel his face. Which was a damn shame because there was a female currently sitting on it. He had downed an obscene amount of whiskey, because he had no idea what the female’s name was, or how they’d gotten to his bedroom, or how he’d wound up with his tongue between her legs. He really fucking loved his life. At least … right now.

Some kind of aura—Dec said it felt like a storm was circling the house.”

when the open front doors darkened. Or rather, the space within them darkened. Exactly as it had when those demons had stormed through the Gates. Ruhn gaped for a moment at the portal to Hel that had just replaced his front doors.

A figure stalked from the darkness in the doorway. Straight out of Hel. And in that moment, Ruhn knew three more things. He wasn’t looking at a portal to Hel after all. Shadows swirled there instead. Familiar, whispering shadows. It wasn’t just the glow stick coiled around Bryce’s arm that was shining. The star-shaped scar beneath her T-shirt blazed with iridescent light. As a familiar golden-haired Fae male strode from those shadows and into the foyer, Ruhn knew his night was about to take a turn for the worse.

your father, King Einar,

He shot back, eyes glinting with stars,

Fifteen minutes later, Hunt lay in his own bed, teeth gritted as he stared at the ceiling, with only a snoring Syrinx for company. It was fine. Totally fucking fine that Ithan Holstrom was sharing Bryce’s bed. Totally. Fucking. Fine. His bed, his blood roared. Even if he hadn’t been near it in months. His bed, his Bryce, who’d emerged from the bathroom in her sleep shorts and a faded, threadbare T-shirt that did nothing to hide the shadow of her nipples behind the purple fabric. Thankfully, Holstrom’s eyes were too swollen for Hunt to notice if the male looked. Not that it really mattered. He trusted Bryce. Knew precisely what—and who—she wanted.

But Cormac said to the Autumn King, “He doesn’t know?” His father, damn him, seemed bored as he said, “It didn’t seem necessary. My order is law.” Ruhn glanced between them. “What is this?” His father, features tightening with distaste—as if disappointed that Ruhn hadn’t learned it himself—said, “The late Queen Hecuba had two daughters, from different sires. Hypaxia’s sire, Hecuba’s coven learned afterward, was a powerful necromancer from the House of Flame and Shadow. Hypaxia seems to have inherited his gifts alongside her mother’s.” Ruhn blinked. Slowly. Hypaxia could raise and speak to the dead. All right. He could live with that. “Cool.” Flames danced along his father’s hair, dancing over his shoulders. “Her older sister, however, was sired by a shape-shifting male. A stag.” “So?” Cormac snorted. “Hypaxia’s half sister is better known as the Hind.”

“I’ve got a nine-thousand-year-old Rhodinian bust of Thurr here.” Basically a broody male who was supposed to pass for the nearly forgotten minor storm deity. All that remained of him in their culture was the behemoth of a planet named after him. And Thursdays, apparently. Bryce had already sent a photo of it to Hunt, with the comment, Bryce Quinlan Presents: The Original Alphahole Smolder.

The Crown Prince of Avallen had changed into a climate-appropriate gray T-shirt that did little to hide the considerable muscles of his arms. A tattoo of strange symbols encircled his left biceps, the black ink gleaming in the bright lights.

Cormac glowered. “The Oracle of Avallen said I was destined to unite with a princess who possessed a star in her heart. That our mingling would bring great prosperity to our people.”

“What went wrong is that he tried to kill my—Bryce Quinlan.” Hunt couldn’t stop the words, or his stumble.

Lightning crackled at Hunt’s fingertips. The door opened, and in swaggered Pollux Antonius and Baxian Argos. The Hammer and the Helhound.

he’d halted on an email dated three years ago. It was so simple, so nonsensical that it stood out. Subject: Re: Dusk’s Truth The subject line was weird. But the body of her email was even weirder. Working on gaining access. Will take time. That was it.

From: BansheeFan56 Subject: Dusk’s Truth Have you gotten inside yet? I want to know the full story. Tharion scratched his head, opened another window, and searched for Dusk’s Truth. Nothing. No record of a movie or book or TV show. He did a search on the email system for the sender’s name: BansheeFan56. Another half-deleted chain. This one originating from BansheeFan56. Subject: Project Thurr Could be useful to you. Read it. Sofie had replied: Just did. I think it’s a long shot. And the Six will kill me for it. He had a good feeling he knew who “the Six” referred to: the Asteri. But when Tharion searched online for Project Thurr, he found nothing. Only news reports on archaeological digs or art gallery exhibits featuring the ancient demigod. Interesting. There was one other email—in the drafts folder. BansheeFan56 had written: When you find him, lie low in the place I told you about—where the weary souls find relief from their suffering in Lunathion. It’s secure. A rendezvous spot? Tharion scanned what Sofie had started to reply, but never sent. Thank you. I’ll try to pass along the info to my She’d never finished it. There were any number of ways that sentence could have ended. But Sofie must have needed a place where no one would think to look for her and her brother. If Sofie Renast had indeed survived the Hind, she might well have come here, to this very city, with the promise of a safe place to hide. But this stuff about Project Thurr and Dusk’s Truth … He tucked thos...

Danika Fendyr had known Sofie Renast. Had swapped emails during a six-month window leading up to Danika’s death, all relating to something about Dusk’s Truth and this Project Thurr, except that one detailing a secure spot.

The patch of the golden sun bracketed by a gun and a blade still half-visible near the bite. The Ophion insignia. And the additional red sinking sun above it … Their elite Lightfall squadron, led by Pippa Spetsos.

“How did you even find us?” Bryce asked as they rode the elevator in her apartment building minutes later. “Spy-master, remember?” Tharion grinned. “I’ve got eyes everywhere.”

“Sofie and Danika exchanged a number of intentionally vague emails,” Tharion said. “Ones that included an allusion to a safe hiding place here in Lunathion. A place where the weary souls find relief from their suffering. I’m guessing the Bone Quarter, though I’m not sure even Danika would be so reckless as to send them there. But anyway, it’s not a claim. It’s a fact.”

She hadn’t put any stock in Briggs’s claim about Danika and the rebels when he’d taunted her with it

Bryce blinked, finding Hunt and Ithan watching her and Ruhn. The angel drawled, no hint of his previous haunted discomfort, “Some might consider it rude to have a silent conversation in front of other people.”

“Aren’t you Fae all … allies?” Ithan asked, brows raised. Flynn nearly spat out his drink. “Valbaran Fae and Avallen Fae hate each other. The Avallen Fae are a bunch of backward assholes.

“As for Dusk’s Truth and Project Thurr …” Fury shrugged. “No idea. But Danika was always interested in weird, random shit. She could spend hours getting sucked into an interweb research hole.” Bryce smiled slightly. Also true. “But do you think Danika might have been keeping anything else a secret?” Fury seemed to consider. Then said, “The only other secret I knew about Danika was that she was a bloodhound.” Bryce straightened. “A what?” Fury signaled the barista for another chai. “A bloodhound—she could scent bloodlines, the secrets in them.” “I knew Danika had an intense sense of smell,” Bryce acknowledged. “But I didn’t realize it was that …” She trailed off, memory surfacing. “When she came home with me over winter break freshman year, she could pick out the family ties of everyone in Nidaros. I thought it was a wolf thing. It’s special?” “I only know about it because she confronted me when we first met. She scented me, and wanted to understand.” Fury’s eyes darkened. “We sorted our shit out, but Danika knew something dangerous about me, and I knew something dangerous about her.” It was as much as Fury had ever said about being … whatever she was. “Why is it dangerous to be a bloodhound?” “Because people will pay highly to use the gift and to kill anyone with it. Imagine being able to tell someone’s true lineage—especially if that person is a politician or some royal whose parentage is in question. Apparently, the gift came from her sire’s line.”

“She was a history major.” Tharion arched a brow. “Yeah?” Ithan shrugged. “She once told me she was doing research on something that would likely land her in a heap of trouble. But when I asked her later what she’d gotten on the paper, she said she’d changed subjects. I always thought it was weird.” Tharion shut the fridge door and lounged against it. “Why?” “Because Danika was relentless. If she was interested in something, she didn’t stop. I didn’t really believe that she’d have changed the subject of her paper without good reason.”

Hunt’s blood chilled. The demon prince purred the word with such intent. Such delight. Like he had some sort of claim on her. Hunt’s lightning flared.

A soft, hissing laugh. “Party tricks. I meant your real powers. Your heritage.” Hunt’s fingers tightened on his gun. Bryce challenged, “What powers?” Aidas’s eyes glowed like blue stars. “I remember the last Starborn Queen, Theia, and her powers.” He seemed to shudder. “Your light is her light. I’d recognize that luster anywhere. I’m assuming you have her other gifts as well.”

Starlight glinted among Ruhn’s shadows, shimmering down the length of his sword.

Bryce said, more to herself than to the demon prince, “I hadn’t realized they’d have individualized starlight. I always thought mine was only … brighter than yours.” She frowned at Ruhn. “I guess it makes sense that there could be nuances to the light amongst the Fae that got interbred. Theia’s elder daughter, Helena, had the gift—and married Prince Pelias. Your ancestor.”

“Pelias was no true prince,” Aidas spat, fangs bared. “He was Theia’s high general and appointed himself prince after he forcibly wed Helena.”

“Queen Theia allowed this?” “Theia was dead by that point,” Aidas said flatly. “Pelias slew her.” He nodded to the Starsword in Ruhn’s hand. “And stole her blade when he’d finished.” He snarled. “That sword belongs to Theia’s female heir. Not the male offspring who corrupted her line.” Bryce swallowed audibly, and Ruhn gaped at his blade. “I’ve never heard any of this,” the Fae Prince protested. Aidas laughed coldly. “Your celebrated Prince Pelias, the so-called first Starborn Prince, was an impostor. Theia’s other daughter got away—vanished into the night. I never learned of her fate. Pelias used the Starsword and the Horn to set himself up as a prince, and passed them on to his offspring, the children Helena bore him through rape.” That very Horn that was now tattooed into Bryce’s back. A chill went down Hunt’s spine, and his wings twitched. “Pelias’s craven blood runs through both of your veins,” Aidas said to Ruhn. “So does Helena’s,” Ruhn shot back, then recited, “Night-haired Helena, from whose golden skin poured starlight and shadows.”

Bryce asked Aidas, “Why are you telling us this now?” Aidas shimmered with anger. “Because I was powerless to help then. I arrived too late, and was vastly outnumbered. After it was over—that’s when I asked my eldest brother for a favor. To face Pelias on the battlefield and wipe him from this world.” Aidas paced a few steps, tail swishing. “I tell you this now, Bryce Quinlan, so the past does not repeat itself. Are you doing anything to help in this endless war?” “You mean the rebel cause?” Tharion asked, face taut with disbelief and dread. Aidas didn’t take his eyes off Bryce as he said, “It is the same war we fought fifteen thousand years ago, only renewed. The same war you fought, Hunt Athalar, in a different form. But the time is ripe again to make a push.” Ithan said slowly, “Hel is our enemy.” “Is it?” Aidas laughed, ears twitching. “Who wrote the history?” “The Asteri,” Tharion said darkly. Aidas turned approving eyes on him. “You’ve heard the truth in some form, I take it.” “I know that the official history of this world is not necessarily to be believed.” Aidas leapt off the counter, trotting to the coffee table again. “The Asteri fed their lies to your ancestors. Made the scholars and philosophers write down their version of events under penalty of death. Erased Theia from the record. That library your former employer possesses,” he said, turning to Bryce, “is what remains of the truth. Of the world before the Asteri, and the few brave souls who tried to voice t...

“People died so you could have this power. People have been dying in this battle for fifteen thousand years so we could reach this point. Don’t play the reluctant hero now.