Bryce pulled down a cramped street where a few dented delivery trucks were in the process of unloading boxes of spiky green fruit and crates of crustacean-looking creatures that seemed far too aware of their captivity and oncoming demise via boiling pots of water in one of the food stalls.

Bryce tried not to meet their googly black eyes pleading with her through the wooden bars as she parked a few feet away from a nondescript warehouse, removed her helmet, and waited.

Vendors and shoppers alike eyed her to glean if she was selling or for sale. In the warrens below, carved deep into Midgard’s womb, lay three different levels just for flesh. Mostly human; mostly living, though she’d heard of some places that specialized in certain tastes. Every fetish could be bought; no taboo was too foul. Half-breeds were prized: they could heal faster and better than full-humans. A smarter long-term investment. And occasional Vanir were enslaved and bound with so many enchantments that they had no hope of escape. Only the wealthiest could afford to purchase a few hours with them.

Bryce checked the time on her scooter’s dash clock. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the black leather seat.

The Umbra Mortis slammed to the ground, cracking the cobblestones in a rippling circle.

Hunt’s eyes practically glowed as he said, in full view of those cowering along the street, “I am going to kill you.”

Chapter Eighteen

18

Hunt stormed toward Bryce, stepping over the cobblestones fragmented from his landing. He’d detected her lilac-and-nutmeg scent on the wind the moment she’d stepped outside the back door of her building, and when he’d discovered where, precisely, she was driving on that scooter …

Bryce had the nerve to push back the sleeve of her leather jacket, frown at her bare wrist as if she were reading a gods-damned watch, and say, “You’re two minutes late.”

He was going to throttle her. Someone should have done it a long fucking time ago.

Bryce smiled in a way that said she’d like to see him try, and sauntered toward him, scooter and helmet left behind.

Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.

Hunt growled, “There’s no way that scooter is there when we get back.”

Bryce batted her eyelashes, fluffing out her helmet hair. “Good thing you’ve made such a big entrance. No one would dare touch it now. Not with the Umbra Mortis as my wrathful companion.”

Indeed, people shrank from his gaze, some stepping behind the stacked crates as Bryce aimed for one of the open doors into the labyrinth of subterraneanly interconnected warehouses that made up the blocks of the district.

Even Micah didn’t station legionaries here. The Meat Market had its own laws and methods of enforcing them.

Hunt ground out, “I told you that there are protocols to follow if we want to stand a chance of contacting the Viper Queen—”

“I’m not here to contact the Viper Queen.”