A prison cell.
There wasn’t much else to do but walk and pace and plot.
As the day wore on, I paced and schemed, wondering about Penn, and how to get myself out of this godsforsaken place.
I walked in circles until I could barely take another step.
My thoughts began to unravel, and my determination faltered with the creeping realization that the only Crowther I could entice inside this room was Graysen, and he wasn’t here.
Maybe I still hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s exertion, as a crushing heaviness pressed against my limbs, my gait becoming ponderous and stumbling. A cough tickled my throat, and an icy shiver worked its way through my bones as I dragged myself off to that tiny little bedroom Graysen had created for me.
I stripped off the dress, dumped it onto the floor, and slid between the warm sheets of the bed. Traitorous doubt had nestled and settled inside my mind like a toxic friend, whispering lies that sounded like truth, and made me wonder if there was any point in getting up again.
Within minutes, I was fast asleep.
And on I slept.
7
Graysen
In the early hours of the morning, we’d buried our dead. My family and I stood with the rest of House Crowther, sharing our sorrow as we gathered around the funeral mounds. While the sun rose in a sky still hazy with smoke, we sang laments and offered the dead our prayers, sending our loved ones to Hazus, god of Nine Hells and Collector of Souls.
And now here we were at Sirro’s private residence.
The elevator glided upward. It was only us reflected in the mirrors that lined the small space—Jett hanging limply, supported by myself and Dad. We all knew what we were likely to encounter and how to twist it to our favor.
Jett gritted his teeth as the elevator doors slid open and we eased him into Sirro’s penthouse. The tips of his boots dragged over the tiled floor with each stumbling step. The elevator had opened to an atrium with a cathedral ceiling and skylights. Green foliage dripped from large baskets held aloft on tall pillars carved in ancient stone with the likeness of our gods. Zrenyth’shorned head cradled the curled leaves of hostas; ferns shadowed the angular faces of mother Skalki and her brother Hazus; ivy tangled around Brangwene’s wings, tucked close to the warlord’s reptilian-skinned figure.
It felt like I was standing beneath an electricity pylon. Power. So much raw, rampant power. It breathed through the penthouse, raising goosebumps all over my flesh, and strummed through the air in a melodious pulse as if the entire building were alive.
There were no guards, only wraith creatures. A silky nest of spectral webbing sparkled like spinning diamonds in the corners of the atrium’s high ceiling. Gigantic spiders scuttled across the glass, descending slowly at our arrival. Their mirrored eyes and venom-slick fangs set my teeth on edge, while wolves, bigger than Sage, stalked the perimeter. As we moved a little further into the room, the wraith-wolves tracked us. They hunkered low, snarling in our direction, their ghostly bodies wavering like a gentle breeze swirling through campfire smoke.
We stood near the windows overlooking Ascendria, waiting for Sirro’s personal assistant. While we bided our time, I stared out over the skyline. Clouds dappled the sky above the skyscrapers and towers, and in the distance, slivered glimpses of the lake appeared between the concrete jungle. City-gazing—that’s what everyone would think I was doing. In truth, I watched the room reflected in the glass, at who was speaking with whom, listening in with my keen hearing, and pulling apart the different hushed conversations.
There was only one topic.
Nelle Wychthorn.
Not even Jett’s wounded, sickly appearance could pull them from the Wychthorn Princess and the Changeling.
Near the gilded fountain, the Heads of the four main Upper Houses—Reska, Battagli, Zielenski, and Novak—sat in a tightcluster. The gentle sound of falling water ran beneath the murmur of their conversation and Jett’s rasping breath.
Everyone wore expensive bespoke suits, custom-made leather shoes, and wrists adorned with Vacheron or FP Journe watches. Yoran crossed his long legs, morning light sliding over the warm brown of his skin and the fine weave of his suit. As Dimitre Zielenski murmured something, Yoran drummed his fingertips on the polished armrest.
Bodyguards and soldiers lingered nearby. Lower Houses had gathered as well. I spotted Sia, newly appointed Head of the Estlores after Sirro slaughtered her parents at the engagement blessing. Her husband, Alesk, stood at her side, both solemn. Lyon, Troelsen, Vaduva, and others in fealty to Upper House Förstner were in attendance too. And all were hunters.
Interesting.
A sharp clatter of heels on marble snapped my attention across the atrium. Sirro’s personal assistant, beautiful, like everything he claimed, emerged from a hallway. She glanced up from her tablet, finished a last sweep of her stylus, and approached. Her six-inch heels clicked over the blue-and-white Moroccan tiles. Dark hair curled over one shoulder, swaying as she stopped before us.
“Lower House Crowther.” She smiled, dipping her head, cheeks rounding softly.
“Sarnia,” my father replied.
She was of Mongolian ancestry and Aldan Reska’s cousin. She raised a brow as she took in Jett, then met my father’s gaze. “Should I be worried? Or is this another one of Jett’s pranks gone wrong?”
My father’s mouth twitched with a smile.
