House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1) - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,150

brightened with each word, and for the life of him, Ruhn couldn’t look away. “And maybe …” She angled her head, staring into a swaying bed of lavender.

Ruhn kept his mouth shut, letting her think. His phone buzzed with an incoming message, and he quickly silenced it.

The witch went still. Her slender fingers contracted on the table. Just one movement, one ripple of reaction, to suggest something had clicked in that pretty head of hers. But she said nothing.

When she met his stare again, her eyes were dark. Full of warning. “It is possible that with all the medical advancements today, someone might have found a way to repair a broken object of power. To treat the artifact not as something inert, but as a living thing.”

“So, what—they’d use some sort of laser to repair it?”

“A laser, a drug, a skin graft, a transplant … current research has opened many doors.”

Shit. “Would it ring any bells if I said the ancient Fae claimed the Horn could only be repaired by light that was not light, magic that was not magic? Does it sound like any modern tech?”

“In that, I will admit I am not as well-versed as my sisters. My knowledge of healing is rooted in our oldest ways.”

“It’s all right,” he said, and rose from his chair. “Thanks for your time.”

She met his eyes with a surprising frankness. Utterly unafraid of or impressed by him. “I am certain you will do so already, but I’d advise you to proceed with caution, Prince.”

“I know. Thanks.” He rubbed the back of his neck, bracing himself. “Do you think your queen might have an answer?”

The medwitch’s head angled again, all that glorious hair spilling over her shoulder. “My … Oh.” He could have sworn sorrow clouded her eyes. “You mean the new queen.”

“Hypaxia.” Her name shimmered on his tongue. “I’m sorry about the loss of your old queen.”

“So am I,” the witch said. For a moment, her shoulders seemed to curve inward, her head bowing under a phantom weight. Hecuba had been beloved by her people—her loss would linger. The witch blew out a breath through her nose and straightened again, as if shaking off the mantle of sorrow. “Hypaxia has been in mourning for her mother. She will not receive visitors until she makes her appearance at the Summit.” She smiled slightly. “Perhaps you can ask her yourself then.”

Ruhn winced. On the one hand, at least he didn’t have to go see the woman his father wanted him to marry. “Unfortunately, this case is pressing enough that it can’t wait until the Summit.”

“I will pray to Cthona that you find your answers elsewhere, then.”

“Hopefully she’ll listen.” He took a few steps toward the door.

“I hope to see you again, Prince,” the medwitch said, returning to her lunch.

The words weren’t a come-on, some not-so-subtle invitation. But even later, as he sat in the Fae Archives researching medical breakthroughs, he still pondered the tone and promise of her farewell.

And realized he’d never gotten her name.

40

It took Viktoria two days to find anything unusual on the city cameras and the power grid. But when she did, she didn’t call Hunt. No, she sent a messenger.

“Vik told me to get your ass to her office—the one at the lab,” Isaiah said by way of greeting as he landed on the roof of the gallery.

Leaning against the doorway that led downstairs, Hunt sized up his commander. Isaiah’s usual glow had dimmed, and shadows lay beneath his eyes. “It’s that bad with Sandriel there?”

Isaiah folded in his wings. Tightly. “Micah’s keeping her in check, but I was up all night dealing with petrified people.”

“Soldiers?”

“Soldiers, staff, employees, nearby residents … She’s rattled them.” Isaiah shook his head. “She’s keeping the timing of Pollux’s arrival quiet, too, to put us all on edge. She knows what kind of fear he drags up.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and that piece of shit will stay in Pangera.”

“We’re never that lucky, are we?”

“No. We’re not.” Hunt let out a bitter laugh. “The Summit’s still a month away.” A month of enduring Sandriel’s presence. “I … If you need anything from me, let me know.”

Isaiah blinked, surveying Hunt from head to boot tip. It shouldn’t have shamed him, that surprise on the commander’s face at his offer. Isaiah’s gaze shifted to the tiled roof beneath their matching boots, as if contemplating what or who might be responsible for his turn toward the altruistic. But Isaiah just asked, “Do you think Roga really turns