“Fuck off, Athalar,” Ruhn growled. He reached for Bryce’s arm, but she stepped back. He clenched his jaw. “You are considered a member of this court, you know. You were involved in a colossal mess. He decided the best thing for your safety was to let the case drop, not dig further.”

“As if he’s ever given two shits about my safety.”

“He gave enough of a shit about you to want me to be your live-in guard. But you wanted Athalar to play sexy roomie.”

“He wants to find the Horn for himself,” she snapped. “It has nothing to do with me.” She pointed to the house beyond the iron fence. “You go in there and tell that piece of shit that I won’t forget this. Ever. I doubt he’ll care, but you tell him.”

Ruhn’s shadows stilled, draping from his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Bryce. About Danika—”

“Do not,” she seethed, “ever say her name to me. Never say her name to me again.”

She could have sworn hurt that even his shadows couldn’t hide flashed across her brother’s face, but she turned, finding Hunt watching with crossed arms. “I’ll see you at the apartment,” she said to him, and didn’t bother to say more before launching back into a run.

It had been fucked up to not warn Hunt whom she was summoning. She’d admit it.

But not as fucked up as the Fae tests her father had declined to provide access to.

Bryce didn’t go home. Halfway there, she decided she’d head somewhere else. The White Raven was shut down, but her old favorite whiskey bar would do just fine.

Lethe was open and serving. Which was good, because her leg throbbed mercilessly and her feet were blistered from running in her stupid flats. She took them off the moment she hopped onto the leather stool at the bar, and sighed as her bare feet touched the cool brass footrest running the length of the dark wood counter.

Lethe hadn’t changed in the two years since she’d last set foot on the floor that lent itself to an optical illusion, painted with black, gray, and white cubes. The cherrywood pillars still rose like trees to form the carved, arched ceiling high above, looming over a bar made from fogged glass and black metal, all clean lines and square edges.

She’d messaged Juniper five minutes ago, inviting her for a drink. She still hadn’t heard back. So she’d watched the news on the screen above the bar, flashing to the muddy battlefields in Pangera, the husks of mech-suits littering them like broken toys, bodies both human and Vanir sprawled for miles, the crows already feasting.