“Does Tertian’s father know he’s dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“I need to make some phone calls,” Jesiba said, more to herself. “Before the Governor comes.” Bryce understood her meaning well enough: So Maximus’s father didn’t show up at the gallery, demanding answers. Blaming Bryce for his death. It’d be a mess.

Bryce wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs. “The Governor will be here soon.”

Faint tapping sounded on the iron archives door before Lehabah whispered, “BB? Are you all right?”

Bryce put a hand over the mouthpiece of her phone. “Go back to your post, Lele.”

“Were those two angels?”

Bryce ground her teeth. “Yes. Go downstairs. Keep Syrinx quiet.”

Lehabah let out a sigh, audible through six inches of iron. But the fire sprite didn’t speak further, suggesting she’d either returned to the archives beneath the gallery or was still eavesdropping. Bryce didn’t care, as long as she and the chimera stayed quiet.

Jesiba was asking, “When does Micah get there?”

“Eight minutes.”

Jesiba considered. “All right.” Bryce tried not to gape at the fact that she didn’t push for more time—especially with a client’s death in the balance.

But even Jesiba knew not to screw around with an Archangel. Or maybe she’d finally found a scrap of empathy where Danika’s murder was concerned. She sure as Hel hadn’t demonstrated it when she’d ordered Bryce to get back to work or be turned into a pig two weeks after Danika’s death.

Jesiba said, “I don’t need to tell you to make sure everything is on lockdown.”

“I’ll double-check.” But she’d made sure before the angels had even set foot in the gallery.

“Then you know what to do, Quinlan,” Jesiba said, the sound of rustling sheets or clothes filling the background. Two male voices grumbled in protest. Then the line went dead.

Blowing out a breath, Bryce launched into motion.

Chapter Eleven

11

The Archangel rang the buzzer precisely seven minutes later.

Calming her panting, Bryce scanned the gallery for the tenth time, confirming that all was in place, the art dust-free, any contraband stored below—

Her legs felt spindly, the old ache in her thigh clawing at the bone, but her hands remained steady as she reached the front door and hauled it open.

The Archangel was gorgeous. Horrifically, indecently gorgeous.

Hunt Athalar and Isaiah Tiberian stood behind him—almost as good-looking; the latter giving her another bland smile he obviously believed was charming. The former … Hunt’s dark eyes missed nothing.

Bryce lowered her head to the Governor, stepping back, her stupid heels wobbling on the carpet. “Welcome, Your Grace. Please come in.”

Micah Domitus’s brown eyes devoured her. His power pressed against her skin, ripped the air from the room, her lungs. Filled the space with midnight storms, sex and death entwined.