“We’ll lay it all out tomorrow.” Hunt nodded toward Micah. “I think tonight just proved it’s time to tell him our suspicions about Sabine.”

She was going to be sick. But she nodded back.

They waited until most of Micah’s commanders had peeled off on their various assignments before approaching, Hunt wincing with each step.

Hunt grunted, “We need to talk to you.”

Micah only crossed his arms. And then Hunt, briskly and efficiently, told him. About the Horn, about Sabine, about their suspicions. About the Horn possibly being repaired—though they still didn’t know why she’d want or need to open a portal to another world.

Micah’s eyes went from annoyed to enraged to outright glacial.

When Hunt was done, the Governor looked between them. “You need more evidence.”

“We’ll get it,” Hunt promised.

Micah surveyed them, his face dark as the Pit. “Come to me when you have concrete proof. Or if you find that Horn. If someone’s gone to so much trouble over it, there’s a damn good chance they’ve found a way to repair it. I won’t have this city endangered by a power-hungry bitch.” Bryce could have sworn the thorns tattooed across Hunt’s brow darkened as his eyes met the Archangel’s. “Don’t fuck this up for me, Athalar.” Without a further word, he flapped his wings and shot into the night sky.

Hunt blew out a breath, staring at the pile of ashes. “Prick.”

Bryce rubbed her hands over her arms. Hunt’s eyes darted toward her, noting the movement. The cold creeping over her that had nothing to do with the spring night. Or the storm that was moments from unleashing itself.

“Come on,” he said gently, rotating his injured arm to test its strength. “I think I can manage flying us back to your place.”

She surveyed the busy crew, the tracker shifters already moving off into the trees to hunt for prints before the rain wiped them away. “Don’t we need to answer questions?”

He extended a hand. “They know where to find us.”

Ruhn got to the night garden moments after his sister and Athalar left, according to Naomi Boreas, captain of the 33rd’s infantry. The take-no-shit angel had merely said both of them were fine, and pivoted to receive an update from a unit captain under her command.

All that was left of the kristallos was a burnt stain and a few sprayed drops of clear blood, like beaded rainwater on the stones and moss.

Ruhn approached a carved boulder just off the path. Squatting, he freed the knife in his boot and angled the blade toward a splash of the unusual blood clinging to some ancient moss.

“I wouldn’t do that.”