House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City) (32 page)

Ruhn extended the bridge from himself, through the crystal, and then out into the vast unknown, sprawling into a darkness with no end. He clenched the crystal tighter, willing it to lead him where he needed to go, as if it were a prism filtering his powers out into the world.

Hello?
His voice echoed down the bridge. Into nothing.

He visualized the crystal’s milky core. Imagined a thread running from it, down along this mental bridge, out toward another end.

Hello? This is Agent …

Well, fuck. He should have come up with a code name. He sure as Hel couldn’t risk his own name or identity, but he wanted something cool, damn it.

This is your new contact
.

No answer from Daybright came. Ruhn kept extending the bridge, letting it span into nothingness. Pictured the crystal and its thread, letting himself follow its trail into the night.

I’m here to—

Yes?

Ruhn went still at the faint female voice. Light glowed down the bridge, and then there she was.

A female of pure flame. Or that was how she chose to appear. Not how Lehabah had been made of flame, with her body visible, but rather a female cloaked in it, only a flash of a bare wrist or an ankle or a shoulder through the veil. She was humanoid, but that was all he could glean. She looked like one of the radical sun-priests who’d gone rogue and immolated themselves to be close to their god.

Who are you?
he asked.

Who are
you
?
she challenged. Not one hint of her face.

I asked first.

Her flame flared, as if in annoyance. But she said,
The little black dog sleeps soundly on a wool blanket
.

Ruhn blew out a breath. There it was—the code phrase Cormac had given him to confirm her identity. He said,
And the gray tabby cleans her paws by the light of the moon.

Utter nonsense.

But she said,
I’m Agent Daybright, in case that wasn’t clear enough. Now … you are?

Ruhn peered down at himself, swearing. He hadn’t thought to hide his body—

But he found only a form of night and stars, galaxies and planets. As if his silhouette had been filled by them. He lifted a hand, finding not skin but the starry blanket of the sky covering his fingers. Had his mind instinctively shielded him? Or was this what he was, deep below the skin? Was this fire-being standing thirty feet down the mental bridge what
she
was, deep below her own skin? Or fur, he supposed.

She could be a faun or a satyr. Or a witch or a shifter. Or an Asteri, as Cormac had suggested. Maybe the fire was that of the holy star in her.

She merely stood there, burning.
Well?

Her voice was beautiful. Like a golden song. It stirred his Fae soul, made it perk up.
I, ah … I hadn’t gotten that far yet.

She angled her head with what seemed like predatory intent.
They sent a novice?

A chill skittered down his spine. She certainly spoke like one of the Asteri, regal and aloof. She looked over her shoulder. As if back toward the body connected to her mind.

Ruhn said,
Look, Agent Silverbow gave me this crystal, but had no idea if it could even work on a mind-to-mind level. So I wanted to attempt to make contact and let you know I’m here and this is the new mode of communication. So if it’s an emergency, I don’t need to waste time figuring out how to get in touch.

That’s fine.

He surveyed her again.
So, we trust each other that easily, then?
He couldn’t stop his taunting question.
You’re not at all worried the crystal fell into the wrong hands and the code phrases were compromised?

Agents of the Asteri don’t bumble about so much.

Damn.
I’ll try harder to impress you the next time.

Another soft laugh.
You already have, Agent Night.

Did you just give me a code name?
Night and Daybright. Night and Day—he liked that.

I figured I’d spare you the trouble of trying to invent something interesting.
She turned back to her end of the bridge, flame flowing in her wake.

No messages for me to pass along?
He didn’t dare say Cormac’s name.
Anything about the Spine?

She kept walking.
No. But tell your commander that safe passage is granted under the cover of the waning moon.

Ruhn bristled. Like Hel was Cormac his commander.
I don’t know what that means.

You’re not supposed to. But Agent Silverbow will. And tell him I
much
prefer this method of communicating.

Then Daybright and her flame winked out, and Ruhn was alone.

“Why not tell me Agent Daybright was a female?” Ruhn asked Cormac the next morning, standing in his living room and gulping down his second cup of coffee, Flynn lounging beside him. He’d messaged his cousin to come here under the guise of wanting to
discuss the terms of Bryce’s engagement. Thankfully, his cousin hadn’t needed much more than that before arriving.

Cormac shrugged, his gray T-shirt lightly coated in sweat, presumably from the scorching walk over here. “I thought you might share your father’s outdated views that females should not be in the line of danger and balk at putting her at risk.”

“Does anything I’ve ever done indicate I’d feel that way?”

“You’re protective of your sister to a fault.” Cormac frowned. “Did you
see
Daybright?”

“She appeared humanoid, cloaked in flame. I couldn’t see anything, really.”

“Good. I’m assuming you veiled yourself, too.”

Only by pure dumb luck. “Yeah.”

Cormac paced in front of the TV. “But she said nothing of Sofie?”

Ruhn hadn’t even thought to ask. Guilt twisted in his gut. “No.”

Cormac dragged his hands through his short blond hair. “And no updates on the Asteri’s mech-suit prototype being sent along the Spine?”

“No. She only told me to tell you that safe passage is granted under the light of the waning moon.”

Cormac sighed. Whatever that meant. But Declan asked as he emerged from the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand, “So what now? Ruhn waits for her to call with intel about this raid on the Spine?”

Cormac sneered at Declan. Avallen snob to the core. He said to Ruhn, “Remind me, cousin, why you felt the need to involve these two fools in our business?”

“Remind me,” Ruhn countered, “why I’m working with someone who insults my brothers?”

Dec and Flynn smirked at Cormac, who seethed, but finally sighed. The Avallen Prince said, “To answer your question, Declan Emmett, yes: Ruhn will wait until Daybright contacts him with details on the Spine raid. Or until I have something for him to pass along, in which case he’ll contact her again.”

Flynn leaned back on the couch, propping his arms behind his head. “Sounds boring.”

“Lives are at stake,” Cormac gritted out. “This hit on the Spine,
attaining that new mech-suit prototype before the Asteri can use it against us on the battlefields, will give us a fighting chance.”

“Not to mention all the weapons you’ll loot from the supply trains,” Declan said darkly.

Cormac ignored his tone. “We don’t do anything unless it’s been approved by Command. So wait until you hear from me before you contact her again.”

Fine. He could do that. Go about his life, pretending he wasn’t a sort-of rebel. Only until he wanted out, Cormac had promised. And after that … he’d go back to what he’d been doing. To leading the Aux and hating his father yet dreading the day the male died. Until the next person who needed him for something came along.

Flynn grinned. “Bureaucracy at its finest.”

Cormac scowled at the Fae lord, but stalked for the front door. “I need to head out.”

“Hunting for Emile?” Ruhn asked. It was the middle of the morning—the kid would likely be lying low.

Cormac nodded. “Being a visiting prince allows me the cover of … sightseeing, as you call it here. And as a tourist, I’ve taken a keen interest in your Black Dock and its customs.”

“Morbid,” Declan said.

Ruhn blurted, “You can’t think Emile’s going to jump into one of the black boats in broad daylight.”

“I’ll look for him both by the light of the sun and the moon, until I find him. But I’d rather ask casual questions of the Reapers during the day.”

“Are you insane?” Flynn said, laughing in disbelief.

Ruhn was inclined to agree. “Don’t fuck with the Reapers, Cormac,” he warned. “Even for Emile’s sake.”

Cormac patted a knife at his side. As if that would do anything to kill a creature that was already dead. “I know how to handle myself.”

“I told you this would happen,” Hunt snarled to Isaiah as their steps thundered along the hallway of Celestina’s private residence atop
the third tower of the Comitium. Celestina had called this meeting in her own home, rather than in the public office Micah had always used.

“We don’t have the full scope yet,” Isaiah shot back, adjusting his tie and the lapels of his gray suit.

Celestina had tried to ease the harsh modernism that Micah had favored: plush rugs now softened the white marble floors, angular statues had been replaced by lush-bodied effigies of Cthona, and vases of fluffy, vibrant flowers graced nearly every table and console they passed.

It was a nice contrast, Hunt might have thought. Had they not been called here for a reason.

He kept reminding himself of that reason, that this was a triarii meeting and not some one-on-one session. That he wasn’t in Sandriel’s castle of horrors, where a trip to her private chambers ended in blood and screaming.

He inhaled once, thinking of Bryce, of her scent, the warmth of her body against his. It settled the edge in him, even as something far more lethal opened an eye. What they were doing with Cormac, all this rebel shit they’d agreed to go through with last night …

Hunt glanced sidelong at Isaiah as the male knocked on the open double doors of Celestina’s study. He could tell him. He needed someone like Isaiah, even-keeled and unflappable. Especially if Hel had a vested interest in the conflict. And Hunt himself.

He’d decided to ignore Apollion’s commands. He had no interest in playing right into Hel’s hands.

Celestina murmured her welcome, and Hunt braced himself as he followed Isaiah in.

Sunlight filled the glass-and-marble space, and all the hard-edged furniture had been replaced by lovely artisanal wood pieces, but Hunt only noted the two males sitting before the desk. Naomi leaned against the wall by the built-in bookcase to the right, face dark and lethal focus fixed upon the males.

Well, the one male. The reason they were here.

Pollux didn’t turn as they entered, and Hunt aimed for the chair
beside Baxian. Isaiah could sit next to Pollux. Isaiah threw him a
Thanks, asshole
look, but Hunt scanned Celestina’s expression for clues.

Displeasure tightened the corners of her mouth, but her eyes were calm. Face full of contemplation. She wore pale purple robes, her curls spilling down her bare arms like a waterfall of night. She might have been a goddess, so still and lovely was she—might have been Cthona herself, voluptuous and full-bodied, were it not for the radiant wings that filled with the light of the sun shining through the windows behind her.

“I apologize for keeping my message brief,” Celestina said to Hunt, Isaiah, and Naomi. “But I did not want the full account on the record.”

Pollux and Baxian stared ahead at nothing. Or Hunt assumed that was the case, given that one of Baxian’s eyes was swollen shut, and Pollux’s face was one big magnificent bruise. That it remained this way after twelve hours suggested the initial damage had been impressive. He wished he could have seen it.

“We understand,” Isaiah said in that take-no-shit commander’s tone. “We share your disappointment.”

Celestina sighed. “Perhaps I was na
ï
ve in believing that I could introduce two Pangerans to this city without a more thorough education in its ways. To hand over the responsibility”—she glanced at Naomi, then at Hunt—“was my mistake.”

Hunt could have warned her about that. He kept his mouth shut.

“I would like to hear from you two, in your own words, about what happened,” the Archangel ordered Pollux and Baxian. The tone was pleasant, yet her eyes glinted with hidden steel. “Pollux? Why don’t you start?”

It was a thing of beauty, the way Pollux bristled in his seat, flowing golden hair still streaked with blood. The Hammer hated this. Absolutely fucking hated this, Hunt realized with no small amount of delight. Celestina’s kindness, her fairness, her softness … Pollux was chafing even worse than Hunt. He’d served enthusiastically under Sandriel—had relished her cruelty and games. Perhaps
sending him to Celestina had been a punishment that even the Asteri had not anticipated.

But Pollux growled, “I was having some fun at a tavern.”

“Bar,” Hunt drawled. “We call them bars here.”

Pollux glared, but said, “The female was all over me. She
said
she wanted it.”

“Wanted what?” Celestina’s voice had taken on a decidedly icy tone.

“To fuck me.” Pollux leaned back in his chair.

“She said no such thing,” Baxian growled, wings shifting.

“And were you there every moment of the night?” Pollux demanded. “Though perhaps you were. You always pant after my scraps.”

Hunt met Isaiah’s wary stare. Some major tension had arisen between these two in the years since Hunt and Isaiah had left Sandriel’s territory.

Baxian bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Here I was, thinking your
scraps
were panting after me. They always seem so … unsatisfied when they leave your room.”

Pollux’s power—standard malakim magic, but strong—rattled the pretty trinkets along the built-in bookcase.

Celestina cut in, “That is enough.” Warm, summer-kissed power filled the room, smothering their own gifts. A feminine, unbreaking sort of magic—the kind that took no shit and would lay down the law if threatened. That was utterly unafraid of Pollux and the sort of male he was. She said to the Hammer, “Explain what happened.”