“Two others. Juniper Andromeda, a faun who’s a soloist at the City Ballet, and …” Isaiah flipped open the case file and muttered a prayer. “Fury Axtar.”

Hunt swore softly at the mercenary’s name.

Fury Axtar was licensed to kill in half a dozen countries. Including this one.

Hunt asked, “Fury was with Quinlan tonight?”

They’d crossed paths with the merc enough to know to stay the Hel away. Micah had even ordered Hunt to kill her. Twice.

But she had too many high-powered allies. Some, it was whispered, on the Imperial Senate. So both times, Micah had decided that the fallout over the Umbra Mortis turning Fury Axtar into veritable toast would be more trouble than it was worth.

“Yes,” Isaiah said. “Fury was with her at the club.”

Hunt frowned. But Viktoria leaned in to speak to Bryce once more.

“We’re trying to find who did this. Can you give us the information we need?”

Only a shell sat before the wraith.

Viktoria said, in that luxurious purr that usually had people eating out of her palm, “I want to help you. I want to find who did this. And punish them.”

Viktoria reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and set it faceup on the table. Instantly, its digital feed appeared on the small screen in the room with Isaiah and Hunt. They glanced between the wraith and the screen as a series of messages opened.

“We downloaded the data from your phone. Can you walk me through these?”

Glassy eyes tracked a small screen that rose from a hidden compartment in the linoleum floor. It displayed the same messages Isaiah and Hunt now read.

The first one, sent from Bryce, read, TV nights are for waggle-tailed pups. Come play with the big bitches.

And then a short, dark video, shaking as someone roared with laughter while Bryce flipped off the camera, leaned over a line of white powder—lightseeker—and sniffed it right up her freckled nose. She was laughing, so bright and alive that the woman in the room before them looked like a gutted corpse, and she shrieked into the camera, “LIGHT IT UP, DANIKAAAAA!”

Danika’s written reply was precisely what Isaiah expected from the Prime Apparent of the wolves, whom he’d seen only from a distance at formal events and who had seemed poised to start trouble wherever she went: I FUCKING HATE YOU. STOP DOING LIGHTSEEKER WITHOUT ME. ASSHOLE.

Party Princess, indeed.

Bryce had written back twenty minutes later, I just hooked up with someone in the bathroom. Don’t tell Connor.

Hunt shook his head.

But Bryce sat there as Viktoria read the messages aloud, the wraith stone-faced.

Danika wrote back, Was it good?!!?

Only good enough to take the edge off.

“This isn’t relevant,” Hunt murmured. “Pull in Viktoria.”

“We have our orders.”

“Fuck the orders. That woman is about to break, and not in a good way.”