House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1) - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,168

one point to turn off the TV and use the bathroom; when she’d come back, Juniper had been awake, waiting.

Her friend didn’t leave her side for three days.

They’d never spoken of it. But Bryce wondered if Juniper had later told Fury how close it had been, how hard she’d worked to keep that phone call going while she raced over without alerting Bryce, sensing that something was wrong-wrong-wrong.

Bryce didn’t like to think about that winter. That night. But she would never stop being grateful for Juniper for that sense—that love that had kept her from making such a terrible, stupid mistake.

“Yeah,” Hunt said, “people are assholes.”

She supposed he’d had it worse than her. A lot worse.

Two centuries of slavery that was barely disguised as some sort of twisted path to redemption. Micah’s bargain with him, reduced or no, was a disgrace.

She made herself take a bite of her now-soggy cereal. Made herself ask something, anything, to clear her head a bit. “Did you make up your nickname? The Shadow of Death?”

Hunt set down his spoon. “Do I look like the sort of person who needs to make up nicknames for myself?”

“No,” Bryce admitted.

“They only call me that because I’m ordered to do that sort of shit. And I do it well.” He shrugged. “They’d be better off calling me Slave of Death.”

She bit her lip and took another bite of cereal.

Hunt cleared his throat. “I know that visit today was hard. And I know I didn’t act like it at first, Quinlan, but I’m glad you got put on this case. You’ve been … really great.”

She tucked away what his praise did to her heart, how it lifted the fog that had settled on her. “My dad was a Dracon captain in the 25th Legion. They stationed him at the front for the entire three years of his military service. He taught me a few things.”

“I know. Not about you being taught, I mean. But about your dad. Randall Silago, right? He’s the one who taught you to shoot.”

She nodded, an odd sort of pride wending its way through her.

Hunt said, “I never fought beside him, but I heard of him the last time I was sent to the front—around twenty-six years ago. Heard about his sharpshooting, I mean. What does he think about …” A wave of his hand to her, the city around them.

“He wants me to move back home. I had to go to the mat with him—literally—to win the fight about going to CCU.”

“You physically fought him?”

“Yeah. He said if I could pin him, then I knew enough about defense to hold my own in the city. Turns out, I’d been paying more attention than I’d let him believe.”

Hunt’s low laugh skittered over her skin. “And he taught you how to shoot a sniper rifle?”

“Rifles, handguns, knives, swords.” But guns were Randall’s specialty. He’d taught her ruthlessly, over and over and over again.

“You ever use any outside of practice?”

I love you, Bryce.

Close your eyes, Danika.

“When I had to,” she rasped. Not that it had made a difference when it mattered.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the message from Jesiba and groaned.

A client is coming in thirty minutes. Be there or you’ve got a one-way ticket to life as a vole.

Bryce set down her spoon, aware of Hunt watching her, and began to type. I’ll be at—

Jesiba added another message before Bryce could reply. And where is that paperwork from yesterday?

Bryce deleted what she’d written, and began writing, I’ll get it—

Another message from Jesiba: I want it done by noon.

“Someone’s pissed off,” Hunt observed, and Bryce grimaced, grabbing up her bowl and hurrying to the sink.

The messages kept coming in on the walk over, along with half a dozen threats to turn her into various pathetic creatures, suggesting someone had indeed royally pissed off Jesiba. When they reached the gallery door, Bryce unlocked the physical and magical locks and sighed. “Maybe you should stay on the roof this afternoon. She’s probably going to be monitoring me on the cameras. I don’t know if she’s seen you inside before, but …”

He clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Got it, Quinlan.” His black jacket buzzed, and he pulled out his phone. “It’s Isaiah,” he murmured, and nodded to the now-open door of the gallery, through which they could see Syrinx scratching at the library door, yowling his greeting to Lehabah. “I’ll check in later,” he said.

He waited to fly to the roof, she knew, until she’d locked the gallery