Hunt smirked at her. “Wouldn’t want you to head out to the world without the proper provisions.”

Bryce flipped him off, took his phone from where he’d left it on the table, and snapped a few pictures: the breakfast, the coffee, his stupid smirking face, Syrinx sitting beside her, and her own scowl. But she drank the coffee anyway.

By the time she put her mug into the sink, Hunt finishing up his meal at the table behind her, she found her steps feeling lighter than they had in a while.

“Don’t lose those,” Hunt warned Viktoria as she sifted through the bag on her desk.

The wraith looked up from the faded gray band T-shirt with a wailing, robed figure on the front. The Banshees. “We’ve got clothes in Evidence for Danika Fendyr and the other victims.”

“Fine, but use these, too,” Hunt said. Just in case someone had tampered with the evidence here—and to let Quinlan feel as if she’d helped with this. Bryce was at the gallery dealing with some snooty customer, with Naomi watching. “You got the Mimir tech from Declan?”

“As I said on the phone: yes.” Vik peered into the bag again. “I’ll give you a call if anything comes up.”

Hunt stretched a piece of paper across the desk. “See if traces of any of these come up, too.”

Viktoria took one look at the words on it and went pale, her halo stark over her brow. “You think it’s one of these demons?”

“I hope not.”

He’d made a list of potential demons that might be working in conjunction with the kristallos, all ancient and terrible, his dread deepening with each new name he added. Many of them were nightmares that prowled bedtime stories. All of them were catastrophic if they entered Midgard. He’d faced two of them before—and barely made it through the encounters.

Hunt nodded toward the bag again. “I mean it: don’t lose those clothes,” he said again.

“Going soft, Athalar?”

Hunt rolled his eyes and aimed for the doorway. “I just like my balls where they are.”

Viktoria notified Hunt that evening that she was still running the diagnostic. The Fae’s Mimir tech was thorough enough that it’d take a good while to run.

He prayed the results wouldn’t be as devastating as he expected.

He’d messaged Bryce about it while she finished up work, chuckling when he saw that she’d again changed her contact information in his phone: Bryce Is a Queen.

They stayed up until midnight binge-watching a reality show about a bunch of hot young Vanir working at a beach club in the Coronal Islands. He’d refused at first—but by the end of the first hour, he’d been the one pressing play on the next episode. Then the next.