The elevator glided upward. It was just us reflected in the mirrors that banked the small space—myself, Jett, and our father. We didn't speak. We'd done enough of it on the ride over here. We all knew what we'd likely encounter and how to turn and twist it.

Sirro wanted answers regarding the hijacking of his tithes.

In the early hours of the morning, we'd buried our dead. My family and every single person that formed House Crowther collected around the funeral mounds and, while the sun rose in a sky still hazy with smoke, we sang laments and offered the dead our prayers, sending them to Hazus, god of Nine Hells and Collector of Souls. My family and I shared our sorrow and grieved over our fallen along with everyone else.

The lawns, which had been reduced to pitted, barren earth, smoldering with the remnants of wyrmfire, had been churned over by our staff, and already the beginning of a landscaping project to hide the battlefield had taken shape.

Now Sirro had called us to his private residence. He wanted to speak with Jett, as my brother was the only survivor of the supposed attack.

The elevator doors slid open and our reflection disappeared.

Jett gritted his teeth as we eased him into Sirro's penthouse. The tips of his boots dragged over the polished tiled floor with each stumbling step. Last night I'd hit him on the side of his ribs with the bolt, ripping through flesh, a mere graze. But the effect of that bolt, and whatever darkness it contained—fuck, just a nick would have killed anyone lesser. Only our mother's blood gift kept the cursed magic at bay.

The elevator had opened up to an atrium with a cathedral ceiling and skylights. Great planes of glass overlooked the city of Ascendria and the lake in the distance. 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; fern 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 body.

It felt like I was standing beneath an electricity pylon. Power. So much raw, rampant power—it breathed through the entire penthouse, hummed, nipped at my body, raising goosebumps all over my flesh and strumming through the air in a low melodious pulse as if the whole building were alive.

There were no guards, only wraith creatures. A silky nest of wavering, ghostly webbing sparkled like spinning diamonds in the corners of the atrium's high ceiling. Scuttling across the glass, and slowly creeping downward at our appearance, were gigantic spiders. Their mirrored eyes and venom-slick fangs set my teeth on edge, while wolves, bigger than Sage—his Siberian cousins—stalked the large floor space. Their uncanny silver eyes, unblinking, tracked us as we moved a little further into the room, their half-corporal bodies and fur formed from mist wafted like a gentle breeze swirling through campfire smoke as they hunkered low, snarling in our direction.

Near a gilded fountain set in the very center of the atrium, a group of men sat in a close grouping of chairs and couches. An ornate fretwork rounded the fountain's sides, stocked with orange and red-scaled carp, lazily swimming beneath lily pads and weaving through water reeds. The gentle sound of falling water ran beneath the murmur of the Heads' conversation and Jett's rasping breath.

The four main Upper Houses were here: Reska, Battagli, Zielenski, and Novak. I could only assume that Byron was already speaking with Sirro.

Our House was aligned to Upper House Novak. We worked for Yoran Novak as enforcers, keeping the crime lords that headed the differing syndicates and cartels in line, and ensuring our product—illicit drugs infused with magic—flowed to the mortal masses, and the money amassed flowed upward to us and the Horned Gods.

Everyone wore expensive bespoke suits, custom-made leather shoes, and wrists adorned in Rolexes or Jaeger-LeCoultre watches. Yoran crossed his long, lean legs. His deep brown skin appeared darker in the lackluster morning light. He drummed his fingertips on the edge of the polished wooden armrest while Dimitre Zielenski spoke in a low voice.

There were several bodyguards and soldiers brought in by each House, lingering close by, and there were Lower House Heads too. I spied Sia, newly appointed Head of Lower House Estlore after both her parents were slaughtered by Sirro at the engagement blessing a few nights ago. Her husband Alesk stood at her side, both of them solemn. The rest of the Houses gathered—Lyon, Troelsen, Văduva, and a few others—were in liege to Upper House Förstner, and all were hunters.

Interesting.

We stood near the expanse of windows overlooking the city of Ascendria, waiting to be met by Sirro's personal assistant, and while we bided our time I stared out over the city skyline. Gray clouds hovered like mist over the skyscrapers and towers, and in the distance where slivered glimpses of the lake could be seen between the concrete jungle, the dreary light changed the watery surface to a murky green. City-gazing—that's what everyone would think I was doing. Instead, I stared at the room's reflection in the glass, at who was speaking with who, 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 and sickly appearance took them off the subject of the Wychthorn Princess and the Changeling.

A purposeful clatter of shoes on marble had my gaze shooting across the atrium. Sirro's personal assistant—beautiful, like everything he possessed—appeared from a hallway. She briefly glanced up from her tablet and finished sweeping her stylus across the screen before heading toward us. Her six-inch heels clacked across the blue and white Moroccan tiled flooring. Dark hair, long and curled over one shoulder gently swayed with the motion as she halted in front of us holding the stylus in one hand, the tablet in the other—lowered to her hip where the navy pencil skirt clung to her curves.

Brown eyes sprinkled with gold regarded us. "Lower House Crowther." She dipped her head in acknowledgment, smiling, the flat planes of her cheeks rounding like apples. Pale sunlight, filtering through atrium skylights from an overcast sky, skimmed her light-brown skin and the silky pink blouse she wore.

"Sarnia," my father replied.

She was of Mongolian ancestry and one of Aldan Reska's cousins. She raised an eyebrow above elegantly shaped eyes, 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 didn't smile, but his eyes did.

Jett huffed a laugh that got caught up in a cough. He winced, his voice tight. "Sarnai, I wouldn't mind sitting down."

Sarnia raised the tablet, holding it to her chest and tapping the stylus 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 to walk ahead of us, 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 short huff of laughter from Jett.

We followed, my father and I guiding Jett between us. 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 pained.

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 down the hallway, its flooring the same blue and white tiles that were in the atrium, passing tall, brass floor candlesticks, and antique Moroccan lamps overhead spilling stained light in sunset hues.

But the walls. They were an off-white color and mottled with age. Bones, massive bones, lined the walls and curved around the ceiling. The rounded shape of the bones, jutting against one another side-by-side, gave the appearance of ribs. It felt like I was walking down the belly of a snake...or a wyrm.

On either side of the hallway was a line of heavily studded wooden doors. A servant slipped through one, and just before the door closed I caught a glimpse of glistening bare skin and lace and heard low whispers and soft sighs—Sirro's harem kept close to his sleeping quarters.

"Master Sirro won't be long," Sarnia said, pushing open the door to Sirro's solar. She let us inside and left us, her clipped footfall receding as she made her way back to the atrium, 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 turned his palm over, gesturing to the other chairs for us to sit.

Jett unlatched his arms from our shoulders and sank down into a leather armchair in a deep brown that was almost black. He clenched his jaw, tipping his head back to rest against the pillowy support. A sheen of feverish sweat coated his pale forehead and dampened his wavy hair which grazed his shivering shoulders.

We'd expected Byron, so that was no surprise, but his demeanor was. He'd pulled himself together from the rumpled mess I'd confronted last night.

My lips curled in slightly.

Shit, shit, shit.

But once again there was no time to think about what to do next in regards to breaking him—I had to focus on just one thing at a time. And this time it was all about my youngest brother and the mess he'd made for our House—the jeopardy we were all in because he'd rescued Red.

We'd encountered Red, a mortal girl, when we'd been hunting a unique mortal a few nights back. Unknown to us, sometime later Red had been stolen by another House as their offering to the Horned Gods for Evvie and Corné's engagement blessing.

Unfortunately, Red had been one of the tithes chosen by Sirro, and Jett had gotten it into his head to save her.

As there was an unknown faction out there, hounding our empire by attacking and wiping out shipments of our contraband, Jett had been in charge of shadowing the convoy as they made their way from the Wychthorn estate to Sirro's in the city of Ascendria.

My younger brother had ended the Wychthorn soldiers and freed Red as well as a handful of other stolen souls—innocents, and those with dark murderous souls, he'd killed. He'd set the convoy alight with wildfyre. Wildfyre was something no mortal knew about. And rather conveniently, since the faction that had been harassing us left no trace, no scent, nothing at all to even suggest they'd been there apart from what they'd left behind—burning metal and flame-shredded bones—it had been easy for Jett to place the blame on them.

But now, due to Jett's reckless actions, my family was in a perilous position. I didn't have time to worry about breaking Byron. I was too busy praying to Zrenyth we were going to survive this meeting with Sirro.

I sank into a rich chestnut chair across from Byron, and my line of sight took in the door to Sirro's bedroom behind him. The chair's wicker backing creaked as I shifted my weight, rolling my neck to ease the constriction of the fucking necktie. I smoothed my hand down the lapel of my suit, the soles of my leather shoes rapping an irritated patter upon the dark wooden floor as my gaze honed in on that dark-stained wooden 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 the sound of someone trying to muffle sobs of terror.

Sirro walked past the opening—half-dressed—sliding his arms into a business shirt. I caught just a passing glance before he disappeared from sight. But I caught something different about him that had my eyes 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 the skin. My truesight didn't detect anything about him that he'd glamoured. He looked young, human, and in his early thirties, only because stealing 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 beneath his skin.

And that, this thing, was the real reason why I'd heard sobs of terror.

A moment later, the door was pulled wide, scattering my train of thought, and Sirro appeared. His golden eyes were so light they were a pale yellow hue. He stepped into the solar, inhaled a deep breath, rolled his shoulders back, and then released the air in a long, low sigh as if he'd been fully sated, his muscles relaxed with all the knots worked from them.

We rose—my father assisted Jett—and bowed deeply.

"Sit, sit," Sirro urged with a hand. The words given were friendly enough, but for the quick, harsh look he delivered Jett.

Leather groaned as Jett fell heavily back into the armchair. His hand shook as he pressed it against the side of his ribs.

Sirro smiled in that way of his that showed most of his teeth, and a crawling sensation crept down my spine.

My father and I retook our seats.

Silver threads of otherworldly power backlit Sirro's lean figure as the Horned God rolled his shirt sleeves up while leisurely strolling toward a luxurious high-backed armchair beside Byron. His Familiar, with those strands of dark magic connecting them both, shuffled behind him as they moved through the solar.

The room was intimate and richly appointed with rugs in deep shades of burnt sienna, silks and brocaded curtains, leather and wicker armchairs, and plush velvet chaises. Potted palms—their glossy leaves cast faint shadows over ancient stone carvings from the time of our gods—and gleaming wooden furniture from all centuries and eastern cultures. Antique lattice work hung on the white-washed walls.

Sirro sat down—casually attired, with no tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His Familiar knelt beside his chair, her bony liver-spotted hands clasped on her lap, and head bowed with dull silver hair falling over her knobbled shoulders. A crone. She didn't have too much life left in her. Sirro had sucked her almost dry—no doubt one of the reasons he would be pissed that the tithe, with whom he intended to replace his Familiar—Red—had been stolen from him in this supposed hijacking.

Sirro addressed me. "I hear you Crowthers are having a family reunion and Nelle's staying with you for a while."

I nodded, but my gaze shifted to Byron. No doubt he'd filled Sirro in as to what had happened to Nelle...up to a point of course. He seemed more put together, cleanly shaven and his eyes for once not shining with alcohol. But at his daughter's name, I saw his hands clench on his thighs, the muscle feathering in his jaw. His fear for his daughter, and his outright hate of me, blazed through his returning gaze.

The slight twitch of amusement on Sirro's lips drew my attention back to him. His golden eyes were lit up like buttery sunlight. "Well," he drawled, a smile appearing and growing broader. "I guess since her twentieth birthday isn't that far away," he looked toward Byron, now speaking to him, "you may as well get used to the idea that she's not returning home." Sirro sank further into his armchair and crossed a knee over the other, turning a cunning gaze my way. "And how is sweet, young Nelle?"

An urge arose to wrap my fingers around his throat and throttle him. Horned God or not, I didn't fucking care. Just the taste of her name on his lips had lust spiraling from him. I could scent it, saw it in the way those strands of dark power vibrated and shone a little brighter.

I forced the rising anger back down because, in Sirro's sly way, he was helping me chip away at Byron. Hitching a shoulder nonchalantly, I replied, "She'd have a much more pleasant stay if she'd had a moment to be with her mother and sisters, and speak with them."

"Byron?" Sirro asked.

Byron remained silent, square jaw locked, and his hateful eyes still fixed on me. I didn't know if he simply refused to answer, or if his abhorrence for me choked the words in his throat.

Sirro sighed, leaning an elbow on the armrest, and rubbed his chin. His crooked finger swept back and forth across his short, neat beard. "There's nothing given freely in our world, is there, Byron?"

We needed what was in Byron's treasure trove.

And Byron knew it.

Did Sirro?

Byron's gaze hadn't left mine, and so I smiled, flashing a sliver of teeth. I enjoyed how his nostrils flared and the way his mouth tightened in response.

"What would a moment with your daughter be worth?" Sirro mused in a conversational tone, a tone that didn't expect an answer.

Everything.

Byron would be putting himself into a dire position handing over what we wanted—if it should be discovered.