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

by Sarah J. Maas

“Reapers don’t travel far beyond their realms,” Hunt managed to say. “A comforting lie for mortals.” The Under-King smiled faintly.

“Is Lehabah here?” “I do not know of one with such a name.” “A fire sprite. Died three months ago. Is she here?” “Fire sprites do not come to the Bone Quarter. The Lowers are of no use.”

“Did Danika Fendyr say anything to you before she … vanished this spring?” “You mean before she traded her soul to save yours, as you did with your own.”

“No part left to waste. What we receive upon birth, we give back in death. What is granted to you mortals in the Eternal Lands is merely another step in the cycle. A waypoint along your journey toward the Void.” Hunt growled. “Let me guess: You hail from Hel, too?” “I hail from a place between stars, a place that has no name and never shall. But I know of the Void that the Princes of Hel worship. It birthed me, too.” The star in the center of Bryce’s chest flared. The Under-King smiled, and his horrific face turned ravenous. “I beheld your light across the river, that day. Had I only known when you first came to me—things might have been quite different.” Hunt’s lightning surged, but he reined it in. “What do you want with her?” “What I want from all souls who pass here. What I give back to the Dead Gate, to all of Midgard: energy, life, power. You did not give your power to the Eleusian system; you made the Drop outside of it. Thus, you still possess some firstlight. Raw, nutritious firstlight.” “Nutritious?” Bryce said. The Under-King waved a bony hand. “Can you blame me for sampling the goods as they pass through the Dead Gate?” Hunt’s mouth dried up. “You … you feed on the souls of the dead?” “Only those who are worthy. Who have enough energy. There is no judgment but that: whether a soul possesses enough residual power to make a hearty meal, both for myself and for the Dead Gate. As their souls pass through the Dead Gate, I take a … bite or two.” Hunt cringed inwardly...

The Under-King crooned, “I should like to taste your light, Bryce Quinlan.”

The seven golden stars of the Asteri shone on a red patch above their hearts.

Do you know Mordoc? Have you met him before? Ithan’s gaze remained on the powerful male now rising to sniff the air. Yes. A long time ago. He came to visit the Den. Why? Ithan at last responded, eyes wide and pained. Because he’s Danika’s father.

The dog’s fur—sleek and iridescent enough that it almost resembled scales—flowed over bulky, bunched muscle. Claws like razor blades sliced into the dry ground. Hunt’s lightning crackled, skittering at Bryce’s feet. “That’s a demon,” he ground out. He’d fought enough of them to know. “An experiment of the Prince of the Ravine’s, from the First Wars,” the Under-King rasped. “Forgotten and abandoned here in Midgard during the aftermath.

The crystal of the Dead Gate began to glow white. Not from her touch, but as if— The Reapers were chanting. Awakening the Dead Gate, somehow.

For Hunt, there was only Bryce, bleeding and hurt. Bryce, who’d made that brash run for the sword, probably thinking it was her only shot. Bryce, who’d gotten to her feet anyway, and planned to go down swinging. Bryce, his mate. The three hounds merged back into one. Readying for the killing blow. Hunt landed in the dirt beside her and let out a bellow that shook the Gate itself.

She’d never seen anything of the sort—Hunt was the heart of a storm personified. The lightning around him turned blue, like the hottest part of a flame. An image blasted through her mind. She had seen this before, carved in stone in the lobby of the CCB. A Fae male posed like an avenging god, hammer raised to the sky, a channel for his power— Hunt unleashed his lightning at the Shepherd, the Reapers observing with wide eyes. Bryce was too fast, even for him, as she leapt in front of the blow, Starsword extended. A wild theory, only half-formed, but— Hunt’s lightning hit the Starsword, and the world erupted.

Sofie and Emile Renast could channel energy, too—and lightning. Hunt was no thunderbird, but could he do the same? Lightning flowed in his veins. His body was equipped to handle raw, sizzling energy. Was this what Apollion had hinted at—why the prince wanted not only him and Bryce, but Emile and Sofie? Had the Prince of the Pit engineered this situation, manipulating them into coming to the Bone Quarter so that Hunt would be forced to realize what he could do with his own power? Perhaps Emile hadn’t even come here at all. Perhaps the Reapers had lied about that at Apollion’s behest, just to get them here, to this place, this moment— Bryce angled her sword higher, ready to fight until the end. Hunt gazed at her for a moment, an avenging angel in her own right—and then slammed his hand onto the brass plaque of the Dead Gate.

Bryce dared only a glance behind her as Hunt bellowed again. He was standing, but his hand … White, blinding firstlight—or was it secondlight?—flowed from the Dead Gate up his arm. Up his shoulder. And on the other side of the archway, the stone began to go dark. As if he were draining it. The two hounds of the Shepherd merged back together, anticipating the next strike. Hunt’s voice was a thunderclap as he said behind her, “Light it up, Bryce.” The words bloomed in Bryce’s heart at the same moment Hunt shot a bolt of his power—the Dead Gate’s power—into her. It burned and roared and blinded, a writhing ball of energy that Bryce broke to her will and funneled into the Starsword. Forks of lightning cracked from Hunt, from her, from the sword.

The firstlight had flayed him, leaving a smoking ruin inside his body, his mind. But it had worked. He’d taken the power and converted it into his own. Whatever the fuck that meant. Apollion had known—or guessed enough to be right. And Bryce … the sword … She’d been a conduit to his power. Fucking Hel.

She was the spitting image of Luna, with her upswept chignon, the regal angle of her neck and jaw. As coldly serene as the moon. All she needed was a pack of hunting hounds at her side— And she had them, in her dreadwolves.

Ithan drew another card and said mildly, “You’ve got some nerve, coming to our city and trying to start shit.” The Hind replied with equal calm, “So do you, lusting after the female your brother loved.”

Her eyes lit with unholy fire.

She propped her head on a hand. “So you had no idea you could do that? Take the energy from the Dead Gate and transform it into lightning and all that?” “No. It never occurred to me to channel anything into my lightning until the Prince of the Pit suggested it the other night. But … it made sense: you took the power out of the Heart Gate this spring, and Sofie Renast, as a thunderbird, could do something similar, so … even if the push came from the Prince of the Pit, trying it out seemed like a good alternative to being eaten.” “You went …” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “All lightning-berserker.”

He suppressed a smile as he handed over a silver mark to a whiskery otter whose name tag on his yellow vest said Fitzroy.

full holographic replica of their solar system exploded into view, orbiting the dangling sun in the center of the space. Tharion blew out what she could only assume was an impressed breath. Ithan scanned above them, like he could find his brother in that map. Bryce didn’t wait for them before trailing the old male up the walkway as the seven planets aligned themselves perfectly, stars glittering in the far reaches of the room.

“This space map—” “It is called an orrery.” “This orrery.” Bryce approached the male’s side. “It’s tech—not magic?” “Can it not be both?” Bryce’s fingers curled into fists. But she said, a murky memory rippling from her childhood, “The Autumn King has one in his private study.” The Astronomer clicked his tongue. “Yes, and a fine one at that. Made by craftsmen in Avallen long ago. I haven’t had the privilege to see it, but I hear it is as precise as mine, if not more so.” “What’s the point of it?” she asked. “Only one who does not feel the need to peer into the cosmos would ask such a thing. The orrery helps us answer the most fundamental questions: Who are we? Where do we come from?”

Another push of a button, and the holographic planets began to shift, becoming smaller as they drifted away. The sun rose into the ceiling, vanishing, and distant stars came into view. Different planets. “The mystics made the first star-maps,” the Astronomer said. “They charted more extensively than anyone had before. In the Eternal City, I heard they have a thousand mystics in the palace catacombs, mapping farther and farther into the cosmos. Speaking with creatures we shall never know.”

The mystic said, I am searching for the soul of a wolf called Connor Holstrom. Someone, something answered. No wolves have roamed these lands for eons. No wolf by that name dwells here, living or dead. But what are you? Ithan shuddered, swaying a step. With relief, Bryce realized—because that was the dizzying, rushing sensation in her body, too. “Strange,” the Astronomer said. “Why were we drawn to Hel if your friend isn’t there?” Bryce didn’t want to know. Tried and failed to open her mouth to say they should go. I am a mystic, the male said. From where? A faraway place. Why are you here? To ask questions. Will you oblige me? If I can, mystic, then I shall. What is your name? A pause. Then, Thanatos. Bryce sucked in a sharp breath. “The Prince of the Ravine.”

Thanatos’s tightly curled black hair was cropped close to his head, displaying the handsome, unsmiling face above the powerful body bedecked in dark, ornate armor.

Hunger filled the demon’s expression. I can smell the starlight on you. The Prince of the Ravine knew her. Somehow.

I am a Prince of Death. Souls bow to me.

Bryce demanded, “Is there a way to help souls like Connor?” Whether he was ushered through the Dead Gate tomorrow or in five hundred years, it was a horrible fate. Only the Asteri would know.

The Prince of the Ravine said, I do not care for my brothers’ agenda. I do not heed their rules and restraints and illusions of civilization. I shall taste all of you like this—you and your masters—once the door between our worlds is again open. Starting with you, Starborn.

like a trail of stars soared through the river.

Danika moved. Swift and focused, like she’d been using the time lounging at the table to pinpoint where she needed to go. She headed straight to a lower shelf and pulled off a book. Glancing at the stairs, she flipped it open and began snapping photos with her phone of the inside. Page after page after page. Then it was back on the shelf. Danika returned to her chair and lounged, pretending to be half-asleep when Bryce and Lehabah returned, still arguing about the stupid show. Bryce leaned in toward the screen. “What book was that?” “I clarified the image.” Declan pulled up a frame of the book right before Danika’s black-sparkle-painted nails grabbed it: Wolves Through Time: Lineage of the Shifters. “You can see her finger going to some text here,” Declan went on, clicking to another frame. Danika had opened the book, skimming over the text with a finger. Tapping something right near the top of the page. As if it were exactly what she’d been looking for.

“You had a book at the old gallery. Wolves Through Time. What is it?” A pause. Ruhn and Dec picked up every word with their Fae hearing. “So you did look into the footage. Curious, wasn’t it?” “Just … please tell me. What is it?” “A history of wolf genealogy.”

Bryce opened the book, the hair on her arms rising. “It’s a family tree. Going back … Does this go all the way back to when the Northern Rift opened?” Fifteen thousand years ago. Ruhn peered over her shoulder as Bryce skimmed. “Gunthar Fendyr is the latest—and last—name here.” Bryce swallowed. “He was the Prime’s father.” She flipped to the third page, the one Danika had been most interested in. “Niklaus Fendyr and Faris Hvellen. The first of the Fendyr line.” She chewed on her lip. “I’ve never heard of them.” Declan tapped away on the computer. “Nothing comes up.” “Try their kids,” Bryce suggested, giving him the names. “Nothing.” They went through generation after generation until Dec said, “There. Katra Fendyr. From here … Yeah, there’s an actual historical record and mentions of Katra from there on out. Starting five thousand years ago.” He ran a finger up the tree, along the generations, counting silently. “But nothing on any of these Fendyrs before her.”

The Prime halted her with a dry, leathery hand on her own. Squeezed. “You did not ask why we have forgotten their names.” Bryce started. “You know?” A shallow nod. “It is one scrap of lore most of my people were careful to ensure never made it into the history books. But word of mouth kept it alive.” Brush crackled. Shit. She had to go. The Prime said, “We did unspeakable things during the First Wars. We yielded our true nature. Lost sight of it, then lost it forever. Became what we are now. We say we are free wolves, yet we have the collar of the Asteri around our necks. Their leashes are long, and we let them tame us. Now we do not know how to get back to what we were, what we might have been. That was what my grandfather told me. What I told Sabine, though she did not care to listen. What I told Danika, who …” His hand shook. “I think she might have led us back, you know. To what we were before we arrived here and became the Asteri’s creatures inside and out.”

He turned back toward the doors. The mystic shifted slightly, and the movement sent a whisper of her scent toward him. Snow and embers and— Ithan went rigid. Whirled to her. “You’re a wolf. What are you doing here?” She didn’t answer. “Your pack allowed this to happen?” Rage boiled his blood. Claws appeared at his fingertips. “My parents had no pack,” she said hoarsely. “They roamed the tundra of Nena with me and my ten siblings. My gifts became apparent when I was three. By four, I was in there.” She pointed to the tank, and Ithan recoiled in horror. A wolf family had sold their pup, and she’d gone into that tank—

“Look closer,” Hunt said. “There are slight purple veins in it. That’s the gorsian stone. I’d know it anywhere.” “So what can it do?” Bryce asked. “If I’m right,” Hunt said hoarsely, “it can draw the firstlight from the ground. From all the pipes of it crisscrossing the land. These suits would draw up the firstlight and turn it into weapons. Brimstone missiles, made right there on the spot. The suit would never run out of ammo, never run out of battery life. Simply find the underground power lines, and it’d be charged up and ready to kill. That’s why they’re smaller—because they don’t need all the extra tech and room for the arsenal that the human suits require. A Vanir warrior could climb inside and essentially wear it like an exoskeleton—like armor.”

She said to him, “Light it up, Hunt.”

Hunt didn’t stop at destroying the suit. His lightning slammed the parked trucks, too. Every single one of them. Bryce couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of him—like a god of lightning. Like Thurr himself. He looked exactly like that statuette that had sat on her desk a couple weeks ago—

Stars glinted in Bryce’s hair.

Lightning wrapped around Hunt’s head. Ruhn’s heart stalled a beat as it lingered—like a crown, making of Hunt an anointed, primal god. Willing to slaughter any in his path to save the female he loved. He’d fry every single one of them if it meant getting Bryce out alive.

Hunt lay beside her, wings dripping wet—lightning still crackling around him. His eyes … Holy fuck, his eyes. Pure lightning filled them. No whites, no irises. Nothing but lightning. It snapped around him, vines wreathing his arms, his brow. Bryce had the vague sense of the others behind them, but she kept her focus on Hunt. “Hunt,” she gasped out. “Calm down.” Hunt snarled toward the Hind. Lightning flowed like tongues of flame from his mouth. But the Hind had fallen back, revving her wave skimmer and retreating toward her line of boats. Like she knew what kind of death Hunt was about to unleash on her.

Hunt was there, a hand under her elbow. His lightning danced up her arm, tickling, but not hurting. His eyes still blazed with power as they assessed the unknown female ahead, who—to her credit—didn’t run screaming.

Hunt didn’t back down from whatever primal wrath he rode. Bryce’s breathing hitched.

Hunt’s lightning crackled, a second skin over his body, his soaked clothes. He didn’t show any signs of calming down. She had no idea how to calm him down. This was how he was that day with Sandriel, Ruhn said into her mind. When he ripped off her head. He added tightly, You were in danger then, too. And what’s that supposed to mean? Why don’t you tell me? You seem like you know what the fuck is happening with him. Ruhn glared at her as Hunt continued to glow and menace. It means that he’s going ballistic in the way that only mates can when the other is threatened. It’s what happened then, and what’s happening now. You’re true mates—the way Fae are mates, in your bodies and souls. That’s what was different about your scent the other day. Your scents have merged. As they do between Fae mates. She glared right back at her brother. So what? So find some way to calm him down. Athalar’s your fucking problem now.

Bryce’s heart strained. True mates. Not only in name, but … in the way that Fae could be mates with each other. Ruhn said, Athalar was dangerous before. But as a mated male, he’s utterly lethal. Bryce countered, He was always lethal. Not like this. There’s no mercy in him. He’s gone lethal in a Fae way. In that predatory, kill-all-enemies way. He’s an angel. Doesn’t seem to matter. One look at Hunt’s hard face, and she knew Ruhn was right. Some small part of her thrilled at it—that he’d descended this far into some primal instinct to try to save her.

The city-ship began sailing along the floor of the canyon, the seabed unusually flat and broad between the towering cliffs. They passed a half-crumbling pillar, and— “Are those carvings?” Ruhn asked as Sendes led them back down the hall. “Yes,” she said a shade softly. “From long, long ago.” Tharion said, “What was down here?” He scanned the passing walls of the canyon floor—all of them carved with strange symbols. “This was a highway. Not as you will find above the surface, but a grand avenue the mer once used to swim between great cities.” “I never heard of anything out here.” “It’s from long ago,” she said again, a bit tightly. Like it was a secret. Bryce said from the back, “I used to work in an antiquities gallery, and my boss once brought in a statue from a sunken city. I always thought she was fudging the dates, but she said it was almost fifteen thousand years old. That it came from the original Beneath.” As old as the Asteri—or at least their arrival in Midgard.

There was only his power, and Bryce. The rest of the world had become an array of threats to her. Hunt had the vague notion of being brought onto an enormous mer ship. Of talking with its commander, and noticing the people and the Omega-boat and Cormac being wheeled off. His mind had drifted, riding some storm without end, his magic screaming to be unleashed. He’d ascended into this plane of existence, of primal savagery, the moment the Hind had appeared. He knew he had to take her out, if it meant getting Bryce to safety. Had decided that it didn’t matter if Danaan or Cormac or Tharion got cooked in the process. He couldn’t turn away from that precipice.

She halted in a small clearing, the floor covered with moss and small, white flowers shaped like stars.

Lightning danced down her skin, along her hair, and she basked in it. Took it into herself, let herself become it, become him, and let him become her, until they were two souls twining together at the bottom of the sea.

Bryce had the vague sense of falling through air, through time and space,

His eyes met hers. Only lightning filled them. An avenging god. The star on her chest flared, merging with his lightning. He laid a hand atop it. Claiming the star, the light. Claiming her.