[THIS STORY WILL BE TAKEN DOWN ON SEPTEMBER 30, 2024]
He had hunted me, captured me, and locked me in a tower.
Season 3 'Of Crows and Thorns'
***
While in RISING, Tabitha discovers something peculiar that may assist Nelle in her plan to escape the...
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A cluster of small spiders crawled across the wavering web strung in the glass ceiling of the atrium, high above the gathered higher-ranking members of our society. Wraith-wolves prowled, their strange eyes aglow and fixed on those attending the meeting.
Jett glanced over his shoulder and saw Sirro and I hadn't entered the atrium. Perplexed, his brow creased. He stopped walking and widened his stance, his hand briefly rubbing his wounded side. He stood a polite distance away, but with his keen hearing, he'd be able to listen in to my conversation with the Horned God.
My gaze drifted over the four main players here—the short, stocky Battagli who cleaned our illegally earned wealth; Zielenski, who was in charge of the brothels; the gambling arm was overseen by Lukus Reska; and Yoran Novak ruled the crime syndicates that distributed our magic-infused drugs, created by the Pelans or, as Sirro rightly said, by their Lower House Simonis.
But the rest of the attendees were Hunters.
Upper House Förstner and the Heads of their Lower Houses—Estlore, Văduva, Qillisan, Lyon, Troelsen, and many more were seated in opposite-facing rows.
Byron's hand was fisted by his side as he strode between them. His gray three-piece suit was the same shade as his salted tawny hair. His square jaw was clenched as he spoke through the different kinds of mortals and lesser otherworldly creatures he wanted the Houses to hunt. He wasn't a man for smiling much. I'd only seen that side of him when I'd spent my obligated days with Nelle over the past year. He loved his daughters and had barely tolerated my presence. And I'd caught, very rarely, moments when he'd been overcome with fear at what I intended to do with his youngest daughter after claiming her with the Alverac.
He'd known that I'd been with my mother the night the Horned Gods had come for her. Me, claiming Nelle with the Alverac—he thought it was straight-up revenge.
But last night he'd finally begun to understand just what my family was after. Tucked away in Byron's treasury was a small piece of a god that had been Zrenyth's Warlord, whose power lived and breathed in an ancient relic. We were going to use Byron's daughter to bend him to hand it over to us—Brangwene's Hjarte.
We needed it.
Desperately.
Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I flicked my father a text—a short message informing him of Sirro's advisement to keep quiet about Jett and the crossbow bolt.
In a blur of movement, so fast it could barely be detected, my father checked his phone and discreetly pocketed it. He adjusted his position in his chair, affecting calm bordering on boredom. He didn't look my way, only slightly tilted his chin in reply.
Sirro shifted his weight from one foot to the other, drawing my attention back to him. He slashed a swift smile, a sly glint in his amber eyes. The ombre light glowing from the lanterns overhead gilded his long eyelashes, curving along his high cheekbones and dusting his short beard. "Rumour has reached my ears that you're angling for an invitation to the Witches Ball and that you're offering Nelle as your prize. But so far...?"
