Chapter 7
Graysen
In the early hours of the morning, we’d buried our dead.
My family and I stood with the rest of House Crowther, sharing our sorrow as we gathered around the funeral mounds.
While the sun rose in a sky still hazy with smoke, we sang laments and offered the dead our prayers, sending our loved ones to Hazus, god of Nine Hells and Collector of Souls.
And now here we were at Sirro’s private residence.
The elevator glided upward. It was only us reflected in the mirrors that lined the small space—Jett hanging limply, supported by myself and Dad. We all knew what we were likely to encounter and how to twist it to our favor.
Jett gritted his teeth as the elevator doors slid open and we eased him into Sirro’s penthouse.
The tips of his boots dragged over the tiled floor with each stumbling step.
The elevator had opened to an atrium with a cathedral ceiling and skylights.
Green foliage dripped from large baskets held aloft on tall pillars carved in ancient stone with the likeness of our gods.
Zrenyth’s horned head cradled the curled leaves of hostas; ferns shadowed the angular faces of mother Skalki and her brother Hazus; ivy tangled around Brangwene’s wings, tucked close to the warlord’s reptilian-skinned figure.
It felt like I was standing beneath an electricity pylon. Power. So much raw, rampant power. It breathed through the penthouse, raising goosebumps all over my flesh, and strummed through the air in a melodious pulse as if the entire building were alive.
There were no guards, only wraith creatures.
A silky nest of spectral webbing sparkled like spinning diamonds in the corners of the atrium’s high ceiling.
Gigantic spiders scuttled across the glass, descending slowly at our arrival.
Their mirrored eyes and venom-slick fangs set my teeth on edge, while wolves, bigger than Sage, stalked the perimeter.
As we moved a little further into the room, the wraith-wolves tracked us.
They hunkered low, snarling in our direction, their ghostly bodies wavering like a gentle breeze swirling through campfire smoke.
We stood near the windows overlooking Ascendria, waiting for Sirro’s personal assistant.
While we bided our time, I stared out over the skyline.
Clouds dappled the sky above the skyscrapers and towers, and in the distance, slivered glimpses of the lake appeared between the concrete jungle.
City-gazing—that’s what everyone would think I was doing.
In truth, I watched the room reflected in the glass, at who was speaking with whom, listening in with my keen hearing, and pulling apart the different hushed conversations.
There was only one topic.
Nelle Wychthorn.
Not even Jett’s wounded, sickly appearance could pull them from the Wychthorn Princess and the Changeling.
Near the gilded fountain, the Heads of the four main Upper Houses—Reska, Battagli, Zielenski, and Novak—sat in a tight cluster. The gentle sound of falling water ran beneath the murmur of their conversation and Jett’s rasping breath.
Everyone wore expensive bespoke suits, custom-made leather shoes, and wrists adorned with Vacheron or FP Journe watches.
Yoran crossed his long legs, morning light sliding over the warm brown of his skin and the fine weave of his suit.
As Dimitre Zielenski murmured something, Yoran drummed his fingertips on the polished armrest.
Bodyguards and soldiers lingered nearby.
Lower Houses had gathered as well. I spotted Sia, newly appointed Head of the Estlores after Sirro slaughtered her parents at the engagement blessing.
Her husband, Alesk, stood at her side, both solemn.
Lyon, Troelsen, V?duva, and others in fealty to Upper House Forstner were in attendance too. And all were hunters.
Interesting.
A sharp clatter of heels on marble snapped my attention across the atrium.
Sirro’s personal assistant, beautiful, like everything he claimed, emerged from a hallway.
She glanced up from her tablet, finished a last sweep of her stylus, and approached.
Her six-inch heels clicked over the blue-and-white Moroccan tiles.
Dark hair curled over one shoulder, swaying as she stopped before us.
“Lower House Crowther.” She smiled, dipping her head, cheeks rounding softly.
“Sarnia,” my father replied.
She was of Mongolian ancestry and Aldan Reska’s cousin. She raised a brow as she took in Jett, then met my father’s gaze. “Should I be worried? Or is this another one of Jett’s pranks gone wrong?”
My father’s mouth twitched with a smile.
Jett gave a soft laugh that got caught up in a cough. He winced, his voice tight. “Sarnia, I wouldn’t mind sitting down.”
Sarnia held her tablet to her chest, tapping the stylus unconsciously against its edge while making a humming sound in her throat as if she were thinking about it.
“Please…” Jett rasped out.
Rolling her eyes, and with an efficient wave of her hand, she gestured for us to follow.
Spinning around, she tossed over her shoulder, “Don’t you dare bleed all over the floor, Jett Crowther.
It’s just been cleaned.” Her words were sharp, but her tone was light and earned a quick chuckle from my youngest brother.
We followed. My father and I supported Jett. His head hung low, and his long, lank hair swung with his lumbering gait. Each footstep was harder than the last for him, each breath more painful.
I met my father’s worried gaze with my own. Fuck, we needed this meeting with Sirro over with now.
We slowly made our way through the atrium, past the fountain stocked with orange and red-scaled carp lazily swimming beneath lily pads and weaving through water reeds, and entered a hallway.
Flames burned from tall brass floor candlesticks, and antique lamps spilled light in sunset hues.
The walls were an off-white color and mottled with age.
Massive bones rose along them and arched overhead, their rounded shapes jutting side by side like ribs.
It felt like I was walking down the belly of a snake… Or a wyrm.
Heavily studded wooden doors punctuated both sides of the hallway. A servant slipped through a door, and right before it closed, I glimpsed glistening bare skin and heard low whispers and soft sighs. Sirro liked to keep his harem close to his sleeping quarters.
“Master Sirro won’t be long.” Sarnia pushed open the door to his solar. She let us inside and retreated, and we turned to face the only other occupant in the room.
Byron Wychthorn.
We bowed.
He didn’t acknowledge us by speaking. He merely gestured to the other chairs for us to sit.
Jett sank into a leather armchair, tipping back his head to rest against the pillowy support. A sheen of feverish sweat coated his forehead and dampened his wavy hair, the ends grazing his shivering shoulders.
We’d expected Byron, so that was no surprise, but his demeanor certainly was. He’d pulled himself together from the rumpled mess I’d confronted last night.
My lips curled downward.
Shit, shit, shit.
I had to focus—one crisis at a time. Jett’s reckless actions had put my family in a perilous position. I didn’t have time to worry about crushing Byron. I was too busy praying to Zrenyth we were going to survive this meeting with Sirro.
Sinking into a chair, my line of sight took in the door to Sirro’s bedroom.
The chair’s wicker backing creaked as I shifted my weight, rolling my neck to ease the constriction of the godsdamn necktie.
I smoothed my hand down the lapels of my suit, the soles of my leather shoes rapping an irritated patter upon the floor as my gaze honed in on that leather-paneled door.
It was slightly ajar, and the sound of sobbing reached my ears. Not the sound of a woman coming apart under the skillful touch of pleasure, but someone trying to muffle sobs of fright.
Sirro walked past the opening, half-dressed, sliding an arm into a business shirt. I caught a passing glance before he disappeared. But there was something different about him that had my gaze narrowing sharply.
Sirro’s deep-coppery skin had rippled like a lake that had rain pelting its glassy surface, almost as if something was shifting beneath it.
My truesight detected nothing about him he’d glamoured.
He looked young, human, and in his early thirties only because his Familiar’s life force stopped him from aging.
But there was something else about him. I considered the idea that there might be another beast lurking under his flesh.
And that this beast was the real reason I’d heard frightened sobs.
The door swung open a moment later, scattering my train of thought, and Sirro appeared, fully dressed and casually attired.
We rose, my father assisting Jett, and bowed deeply.
“Sit, sit,” Sirro urged. The words given were friendly enough, but for the harsh look he delivered Jett.
Leather groaned as Jett fell heavily into the armchair. His hand trembled as he pressed it against his ribs.
My father and I retook our seats.
Silver threads of otherworldly power backlit Sirro’s lean figure as the Horned God rolled his shirtsleeves up while leisurely strolling toward a stately high-backed chair beside Byron.
His Familiar, with those strands of dark magic connecting them both, shuffled behind as they moved through the solar.
The room was intimate and richly appointed with deep burnt sienna rugs, brocaded curtains, and a mix of leather, wicker, and plush velvet seating. Potted palms cast faint shadows over ancient stone carvings—remnants from the time of our gods—and antique latticework adorned the whitewashed walls.