Aldert's knees wobbled as he swayed. His hands scrambled pathetically against those tight coils of silver constricting his throat. Blotchy purple stained his cheeks, darkening to blue with oxygen denied to him. His beady eyes bugged. The whites showed all the way around the irises, shining with a film of tears and pure terror.

"I'd remind you, Aldert, exactly who I am." While Aldert's mouth gaped as he tried to draw in an impossible breath, Sirro continued smoothly, "And that you're not irreplaceable. Though I do understand that perhaps you're under emotional strain right now."

Sirro released Aldert.

His dark power, slowly, almost reluctantly, unwound from around Aldert's throat, slinking back across the room to the Horned God.

Aldert staggered. Gasped for breath as he bent, braced a hand on a knee, and massaged his throat.

His son, wide-eyed, remained frozen to the spot in complete shock.

Byron retook his seat, smoothing a hand down his jacket lapels, and slightly tugged his dress pants up to sit more comfortably. "Sit down Aldert," he said coldly.

Aldert twisted around and practically fell down into a chair—a soft thump as his ass hit the cushioned seat.

Garrit nervously chewed his bottom lip, darting frantic looks between his father and Sirro. He slowly lowered himself into his chair. He sat with a straight-rod spine, his feet spread on the floor as if he were still deciding if he should just bolt from the room and leave his father to the Horned God.

My father gave me an imperceptible tip-up with his square jaw, conveying his message with the slight rise of one thick eyebrow. Both of us sat back down in our respective armchairs. Jett slouched against the pillowy backrest, his chest rising and falling with shallow, wet breaths, but he'd discreetly palmed a dagger.

Sirro rose, edging around the coffee table, his Familiar still splayed on the ground beside his chair. He slid one hand into his trouser pocket as he casually strolled across the room. "Your House does have quite the talent for mixing magic and science," he said to Aldert, his voice deceptively calm. But I could hear a cruel edge to his tone.

The Horned God frowned as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him as he stopped to stand beneath the spread leaves of a palm, its fronds dipping low enough to touch. He pinched a broad glossy frond and ran his finger and thumb along the length and held the tip. "But...so does House Simonis." He made a humming sound as if in contemplation. "In fact when I think about it, as your Lower House, Simonis might be doing all the heavy work. They might be the true masters at melding magic and science...not you."

I pressed a fist to my mouth to hide the gleeful grin.

Hellsgate. Sirro was going for the jugular.

I fucking loved it.

Pieces were being shifted around the board, and I wasn't sure exactly what was happening—what Sirro was up to. Right now, I didn't give a fuck. I reveled in seeing Aldert Pelan being put in his place. I'd feel better if he was six feet underground, but right now this was glorious.

Sirro let go of the frond and it sprang back up. He turned to face Aldert, whose hand had stilled around his throat, and his glassy eyes flared wide in astonishment and panic. "Frankly, Aldert, I'm getting tired of you thinking you can speak directly with me. Simply working on a special project for the Horned Gods doesn't give you the right to move around the chain of command." He angled his chin toward Byron. "You speak with your leader, the Head of Great House Wychthorn first. If Byron feels the situation deems for me to get involved, then I will."

Byron's steely gaze was locked on Aldert and the shorter man's throat, bruised and red from being strangled, bobbed before he rasped out. "Of course. My apologies."

Sirro gave a deep, bored sigh, his shoulders rising with the motion. "I'm sure Danne will turn up at some point. The important thing you need to remember is this—the Alverac grants Graysen Crowther absolute authority over Nelle Wychthorn."

"Alverac?" Aldert repeated, his voice raw and hoarse. "Do you mean the marriage contract?"

"Oh, Aldert." Sirro clicked his tongue, his smile growing wholly wicked. "Your House is so young, sometimes I forget how ignorant you are of the immense age of the Horned Gods, indeed as are most of the other Houses too." He walked toward Aldert with carefully measured steps. "The Alverac gives Graysen Crowther every right to deal out punishment to anyone who interferes between him and Nelle."

All the color drained from Aldert's face, and the broken capillary veins webbing across his cheeks were a stark contrast. He glanced at me, and I gave him a sly wink before his gaze darted back to Sirro.

"You need to hear this and then you can whisper it, like you're quite fond of doing, to all the other Heads."

There was something at play here, a simmering rage that had Sirro's otherworldly power vibrating. Aldert had more than offended him. He was outraged with the smaller man. But I couldn't figure out why. Was it Nelle or something else?

"Its official title is—Alverac." Sirro let the word sit in the air before continuing. "The few who have been granted the boon of the Alverac over the centuries had no idea what they possessed." He shook his head in a disparaging way as if disappointed by a small young child. And, I supposed, that's exactly what most of the Houses here were compared to Sirro, the vast age he had lived, and my own bloodline too. "But there is one family amongst the Houses who knows its true worth—the Crowthers. While in the past the Alverac has been treated like a marriage contract, the owners using it to gain an advantage for their House by marrying into an Upper House...this one was signed in blood."

Aldert kneaded his throat.

Byron closed his eyes.

"Graysen Crowther owns Nelle Wychthorn in its purest sense, like a thing, an object to do as he wants with." He wandered back toward his armchair, his polished shoes clacking against the smooth wooden floor. He slid his hand back out of his pants pocket. "And no one can interfere. It gives him the right to wield judgment upon whoever gets between him and his possession." He swiveled to face Aldert before he folded himself back into his chair. "Like your son."

"Judgment?" Aldert retorted, forgetting himself once again. "He more than likely ended my son's life."

This time Sirro smiled like a wolf, his lips pulling back to bare his teeth. "And Graysen Crowther has full authority to do so." He rapped his fingertips against the wooden armrest. "As for Danne, Aldert, I wouldn't worry too much. I'm sure he will turn up in time..." He waved a dismissive hand. "At some gambling hall, before crawling back to you and your family hoping you'll fix some monetary matter for him."

My eyes sharpened on Sirro, and I wondered where he got his intel from.

Aldert tried to keep his composure and somewhat failed. I loved seeing him shaken up, the nerves showing after having his position within the Houses rocked. I heard the dry rasp as he rubbed his lips together, and his gaze had turned inward as he searched for a reason behind Sirro's extreme reaction as well as a way out of this.

Sirro snapped his fingers at his Familiar and she pushed herself off the floor as he softly murmured an apology, patting her head. He stared at my younger brother, his eyes now the color of a buttery sunbeam pouring through a window. "Jett, explain yourself. What happened with my tithes?"

My father murmured my name under his breath and I knew what he was asking me to do. I rose, crossing over to Jett. Bunched in Jett's hands was a roll of velvet. I took it from his trembling grip and placed the cursed bolt, wrapped in crimson, on the coffee table in front of Sirro. I backed away.

I could feel how wrong the bolt was, even sitting a good distance away. I didn't know how Jett was still sitting upright. He was sickly pale, a sheen of sweat coating his face, and he shook all over. His rasping breath was now sharp, shallow pants.

Sirro unrolled the fabric. Inside was the bolt I'd pulled out of Sage and, later, shot Jett with. The Horned God reached his hand out, strands of power creeping along with him, and hovered his spread fingers over the crossbow bolt.

Those threads of power coiled around his fingers like wisps of shadow. They tentatively reached for the bolt, then blew away, scattering and retreating.

Sirro's fingers curled, and he withdrew his hand slightly.

There was only one possible answer to this. The bolt had to have been carved from Gestelt wood—a tree that had the properties that could bring down a Horned God.

The Gestalt tree wasn't quite a tree in the truest sense. A wandering spirit had fallen from the skies, shattering upon impact and its tiny remains were buried deep within the earth. An age later, our goddess Skalki, mourning the loss of her mortal lover, had fallen into grief and despair after her brother Hazus refused to give back his soul. She'd collapsed in heartache and wept for centuries. Her ceaseless tears formed streams and rivers, but they'd also soaked into the ground, seeping deeper and deeper into the very bowels of the earth. It was her tears that had given life to a dormant shard. It sprouted, churning upward, its ochre shoot pushing aside dirt as it unfurled from the ground seeking sunlight.

Skalki had birthed the Gestelt Tree.

Aldert's eyes shone with eagerness, and his whole upper body canted forward to get a better look at the bolt. "Children of the Harbinger," he muttered under his breath. Though Sirro's golden eyes cut straight to the other man, his gaze was distant.

The Children of the Harbinger had nearly exterminated the Horned Gods and the Houses in the Final War with weapons crafted from the Gestelt Tree. We'd barely survived the bloodbath, saved only by Draxxon and Hamon's sacrifice as well as the Horned Gods rallying the last scraps of their power into one collective blow against our enemy and the army they'd amassed from the mortal masses. Over the following centuries, the Houses had hunted down and ended every single member of the sect that had been hells-bent on destroying us. Our ancestors had also cleansed the earth of the Gestelt Tree. Yet here was a bolt fashioned from that very wood. I couldn't say for sure, but I was pretty fucking sure of it.

Sirro carefully rolled the bolt back up in the velvet, making sure the barest use of his fingertips didn't go anywhere near the wood.

I was waiting for Sirro to confirm it, but he merely leaned back in his chair, his elbow bent on the armrest and his finger rubbing his top lip back and forth, brows drawn over those golden eyes that had darkened to smoky hickory.

Aldert had risen from his seat, crossed the room, and now reached for the bolt. "I'll take it to our Laboratories and have it analyzed."

Sirro slapped his palm over the rolled velvet, stopping him. "No need for that, Aldert."

Aldert jerked his hand back, shooting Sirro an unnerved look.

Sirro was thoughtful and pensive.

We all waited for him to elaborate, but he denied us his thoughts.

Instead, he shared a look with Byron, and in turn, Byron set an icy-cold look upon Aldert. "You're dismissed."

I almost crowed with laughter at the stunned-mullet expression on Aldert's face. "Shall I wait with the other Heads?" His gaze bounced to Sirro and back to Byron. "I had no idea there was a meeting taking place today."

"You're not needed, Aldert. This meeting doesn't concern your House," Byron replied, his tone vibrating with barely leashed ire.

Sirro crossed one leg over the other. "Why don't you go back to your laboratories, and do what you do best—ordering others to do your alchemy."

I rolled my lips inward, biting back the barking laugh fighting its way up my throat. Holy hell-gate, Sirro was kicking the fucker when he was down, practically cracking his ribcage right open. What the hells had Aldert done to offend the Horned God?

"Gerrit," Aldert hissed.

The younger Pelan clumsily pushed from his seat, cutting across the room in hurried leggy strides to stand beside his father. Both Pelans bowed and left the solar. Aldert cast a bewildered glance over his shoulder at Sirro to be dismissed in such a manner, but the Horned God ignored him.

Bryon rose from his seat and spoke to Sirro. "I'll begin the meeting." He smoothed his hand down the lapels of his jacket and angled his chin toward the door to the solar. "Varen."

My father unfolded his formidable body, bowed deeply to Sirro, and followed Byron out of the room, giving one last furtive glance toward Jett. Concern and anxiousness flashed briefly in his eyes before he shuttered them away.

It was just Sirro, Jett, and me.

The Horned God ran a lazy gaze over my brother, the delicate skin around his eyes creasing as his eyes narrowed. "You don't look so good."

Jett's bloodless lips pulled into a small, tight smile. He rasped quietly, "I've had better days, Master Sirro."

"I want to know what happened that night to my tithes. I'm sure you understand just how infuriating it was to have that Unbroken Shard denied me—the one with the glorious mane of red hair." Sirro was a study in metal—wavering silver strands kissed deep copper skin and golden eyes were fixed on my brother. And like metal, coldness radiated from the Horned God, as well as hostility, sharp and jagged in its raw state. He crooked a finger at Jett, indicating for him to rise before him. "Young Jett, explain yourself." The harsh off-kilter note, clanging within his tone, frayed my nerves.

Here it was—the moment we'd all been dreading. Would our lies be believed? Would our House survive the Horned God's wrath if the truth was discovered?

My hands were pushing against the armrests in my intent to help Jett stand when Sirro's tut-tut and the slow shake of his head stopped me. I reluctantly sank back into the chair, my heart rapping an anxious patter as my gaze speared to my younger brother.

Jett sagged in his seat. His pallid face was drawn in painful lines, and his labored breathing sent ice sliding down my spine. We needed this over with, fast.

Shit, if the bolt's curse reaches Jett's heart...

"I'm sure Jett can manage all by himself," Sirro said, his unblinking eyes not leaving my brother's.

Jett clenched his jaw. The veins corded down his throat and the swirls of black ink were a horrid contrast to the sickly pallor of his skin. He drew his feet back and shoved up off his chair. Wincing, he expelled an agonizing hiss between his teeth, and the hand braced across his wound trembled.

Sirro leaned back in his chair, and though it seemed as if he were calmly stroking his Familiar's head, his thick eyebrows were drawn over eyes gone dark with the acrimony that burned with the intensity of molten iron, as bright as the sun, pouring from a smelting pot. His power rippled and slunk around his limbs, his Familiar's too, burnishing them with silver light that teased the tousled locks of his dark brown hair and cut the planes of his cheeks into sharp relief.

Jett approached in a lumbering gait, his combat boots dragging across the wooden floor. He halted in front of the coffee table. His legs wobbled and he stumbled, his free hand flung wide to right his balance.

Shit, shit, shit—

I canted forward, rising—

And stopped at Sirro's keen-edged glare, warning me not to move a single muscle.

Fuuuck!