House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1) - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,207

the first place. Ember continued, “So tell me about yourself.”

Randall said flatly to his wife. “He’s Hunt Athalar.”

“I know,” Ember said. “But all I’ve heard are horrible war stories. I want to know about the real male. And get a straight answer about why you’re living in my daughter’s guest room.”

Bryce had warned him while they cleaned: Do not say a word about the murders.

But he had a feeling that Ember Quinlan could sniff out lies like a bloodhound, so Hunt smudged the truth. “Jesiba is working with my boss to find a stolen relic. With the Summit happening in two weeks, the barracks are overloaded with guests, so Bryce generously offered me a room to make working together easier.”

“Sure,” Ember said. “My daughter, who never once shared her precious Starlight Fancy toys with a single kid in Nidaros, but only let them look at the stupid things, offered up the entire guest room of her own goodwill.”

Randall nudged his wife with a knee, a silent warning, perhaps, of a man used to keeping the peace between two highly opinionated women.

Bryce said, “This is why I told him to have a drink before we dialed you.”

Ember sipped from her coffee. Randall picked up a newspaper from the table and began to flip through it. Ember asked, “So you won’t let us come visit this weekend because of this case?”

Bryce winced. “Yes. It’s not the sort of thing you guys could tag along on.”

A hint of the warrior shone through as Randall’s eyes sharpened. “It’s dangerous?”

“No,” Bryce lied. “But we need to be a little stealthy.”

“And bringing along two humans,” Ember said testily, “is the opposite of that?”

Bryce sighed at the ceiling. “Bringing along my parents,” she countered, “would undermine my image as a cool antiquities dealer.”

“Assistant antiquities dealer,” her mother corrected.

“Ember,” Randall warned.

Bryce’s mouth tightened. Apparently, this was a conversation they’d had before. He wondered if Ember saw the flicker of hurt in her daughter’s eyes.

It was enough that Hunt found himself saying, “Bryce knows more people in this city than I do—she’s a pro at navigating all this. She’s a real asset to the 33rd.”

Ember considered him, her gaze frank. “Micah is your boss, isn’t he?”

A polite way of putting what Micah was to him.

“Yeah,” Hunt said. Randall was watching him now. “The best I’ve had.”

Ember’s stare fell on the tattoo across his brow. “That’s not saying much.”

“Mom, can we not?” Bryce sighed. “How’s the pottery business?”

Ember opened her mouth, but Randall nudged her knee again, a silent plea to let it drop. “Business,” Ember said tightly, “is going great.”

Bryce knew her mother was a brewing tempest.

Hunt was kind to them, friendly even, well aware that her mom was now on a mission to figure out why he was here, and what existed between them. But he asked Randall about his job as co-head of an organization to help humans traumatized by their military service and asked her mom about her roadside stand selling pottery of fat babies lolling in various beds of vegetables.

Her mom and Hunt were currently debating which sunball players were best this season, and Randall was still flipping through the newspaper and chiming in every now and then.

It had gutted her to hear what had happened to Hunt’s own mother. She kept the call going longer than usual because of it. Because he was right. Rubbing her aching leg beneath the table—she’d strained it again at some point during their cleaning—Bryce dug into her third croissant and said to Randall, “This still isn’t as good as yours.”

“Move back home,” her dad said, “and you could have them every day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, eating another mouthful. She massaged her thigh. “I thought you were supposed to be the cool parent. You’ve become even worse than Mom with the nagging.”

“I was always worse than your mother,” he said mildly. “I was just better at hiding it.”

Bryce said to Hunt, “This is why my parents have to ambush me if they want to visit. I’d never let them through the door.”

Hunt just glanced at her lap—her thigh—before he asked Ember, “Have you tried to get her to a medwitch for that leg?”

Bryce froze at exactly the same heartbeat as her mother.

“What’s wrong with her leg?” Ember’s eyes dropped to the lower half of her screen as if she could somehow see Bryce’s leg beneath the camera’s range, Randall following suit.

“Nothing,” Bryce said, glaring at Hunt. “A busybody angel, that’s what.”

“It’s the wound she got two years ago,” Hunt