“We weren’t finished.”
“What part of stealing didn’t you hear?”
Wade hauled Patrick toward the door with a grip he couldn’t break unless he wanted to tear his leather jacket and ruin the charms embedded in it. Since Patrick wasn’t keen on that, he let himself be pulled into the relative safety of the hallway.
“Remember what I said,” Quetzalcoatl called out.
“Yeah, I know,” Patrick muttered, knowing the god could hear him.
“Reed said we could go home. He got us a flight on a private jet because of security or something. Do you think I’ll get to pick my snacks again like when we went to Chicago?” Wade asked.
“No, because Marek isn’t footing the bill. The government is, and they’re cheap.”
Patrick was cognizant of the military aide following in their wake as Wade led him unerringly to Jono. He was standing off to the side, eyes locked on them, and Patrick gave him a quick nod as they drew close.
“Found him,” Wade announced. “Can we go?”
Jono leaned in to brush a kiss over Patrick’s cheek, discreetly breathing in. The displeased sound that left his throat at the lingering scent of ozone made Patrick shake his head in warning.
“Pat,” Jono growled.
“Had a second meeting with DEA Special Agent Juan Delgado after the FBI agent finished. You remember him,” Patrick said.
Jono’s eyes narrowed. “What did he want?”
“Just updated me on the case from last summer. He said it would be good if we got more help.” Patrick knew Jono would read between the lines. Judging by his frown, he didn’t like the order decorated as a suggestion any better than Patrick did. “We need reinforcements.”
“I thought the joint task force was working on that?”
“That’s not the kind of reinforcements I’m talking about.”
“Whatever you need.”
What he needed was for tonight not to have ever happened.
Grief churned beneath the veneer of calm Patrick had dragged over everything, willing it to hold until he was alone with his pack. If Reed said they could go, then he wanted to get the fuck gone.
Escape stayed out of reach just a little longer as Priya slipped between a pair of US Marshals before they could find an exit, waving down Patrick. “Collins, a word.”
Patrick shrugged off Wade’s hand and went to her. “Ma’am?”
“General Reed tells me you’re heading back to New York.”
“Those are my marching orders.”
“I’ll be meeting with the heads of the joint task force tomorrow. Expect a call from me afterward, so keep your phone on you. Setsuna—” Priya broke off before sucking in a deep breath, getting herself under control. Her eyes were dry but reddened. “The SOA is transporting her body to our morgue tonight. I’ll be requesting a writ of habeas corpus et animum and recalling our top necromancer. The president wants a record of what happened tonight from Setsuna.”
Patrick was very glad she didn’t order him to stay for Setsuna’s court-ordered resurrection, however brief it would be. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle that.
“Has her death hit the media yet?” Patrick asked.
Priya’s grim expression was answer enough. “SOA standard response to any inquiries you get is no comment.”
“Understood.”
Not like he had any desire to talk with the media. He’d had enough of feeling like prey around people with cameras over the summer.
Priya knuckled one eye before sighing heavily. “I’ll be sending a team from the Rapid Response Division to New York for protection of the nexus. I know you can’t tap a ley line any longer, but I’ll want you to stay abreast of our defensive plans.”
Patrick managed to keep a straight face about his supposed deficiencies with tapping external magic in ley lines. “I’ll keep in contact with SAIC Ng. If I’m running point on any joint task force missions, then I may not be available for in-person meetings.”
She waved off his concern. “General Reed already let me know what you are spearheading takes precedence, and Setsuna had informed me of the same before she—well. I know you had a direct line to her. Considering everything that is happening right now, I want to keep that same communication open. Here’s my work and personal cell phone numbers.”
Priya handed him a business card, those two numbers already scribbled on the back. Patrick put them into his phone right there even as he committed the numbers to memory.
“Get home safely,” Priya said before walking off.
Patrick ran his tongue over the back of his teeth as he turned around to face his pack. “Let’s find General Reed and figure out the flight.”
Jono and Wade fell into step behind Patrick, letting him take the lead when he felt less and less like he knew what the fuck he was doing. He still had Setsuna’s blood beneath his fingernails and caked into the knees of his jeans. He was afraid that in the future Ethan was hurtling them all toward, he’d only get more blood on his hands.
10
They landed in LaGuardia after midnight in the private jet terminal. Their flight on the private jet wasn’t luxurious in any way beyond the seats, though Wade decimated the snacks and food on board. Patrick had drunk his way through five tiny bottles of whiskey, and Jono hadn’t tried to stop him. His shields had loosened on the flight home, and the bitter, sharp scent of grief pouring off him made Jono keep his concerns to himself.
“We’re dropping you off at Sage’s,” Jono told Wade as he unlocked the Mustang in the short-term car park.
“I want to sleep in my own bed though,” Wade replied before scrambling into the back seat. The Mustang wasn’t the roomiest of cars, but Wade was a decent sort about the lack of space.
“You’re going to apologize to her for leaving like you did, and then you’re pairing up with her. No one goes anywhere alone.”
“I’ll text her,” Patrick said.
Jono started the engine once everyone was buckled up and backed out of their spot. Leaving the car park at that time of the night meant little traffic, the ranks of taxis and ride shares diminished by the late hour. The drizzle of rain was concerning, if only because of what the clouds hid above.
No one spoke on the drive into Manhattan, crossing over the Queensboro Bridge on the way to the Art Deco building Marek and Sage owned in the Upper East Side. When they arrived, the front door opened and Sage came out in a dressing gown tied around her waist over her pajamas and ballet flats rather than slippers in deference of the sidewalk.
Patrick had to get out of the car in order to move the seat up so Wade could crawl out. Jono watched as Sage wrapped her arms around Patrick in a hug he returned after a couple of seconds.
“I’m sorry,” Sage said, smelling like worry and sadness that the strong breeze whipped away in seconds. Patrick’s grief was stuck in Jono’s lungs. All he wanted to do was wrap Patrick up in his arms and promise to keep him safe, but he couldn’t keep Patrick safe from loss.
Patrick didn’t say anything to that, merely patted her on the back before letting her go and getting back into the car. Sage waved at Jono before ushering Wade toward the building where Marek waited in the doorway, all the while scolding him about his jaunt to DC.
Jono drove away, taking them home. When they turned down their street in Chelsea sometime later, Jono expected to see the media present in front of their apartment, but no one was there. He was determined to make one circle of the block looking for any open parking spot, and if he couldn’t find one, he was going to park in the red zone. Except there was an empty spot right in front of their apartment building as luck would have it.
Or maybe not luck.
Jono was all set to back into the spot when the crackling scent of ozone filled the car, and gold-brown eyes reflected in the rearview mirror, staring at him.
“Bloody hell,” Jono growled, slamming his foot on the brake. He’d had enough of ozone stinging his tongue for one night.
“Cousin,” Hermes said, suddenly sprawled in the back seat. “Pattycakes.”
“Get the fuck out,” Patrick snarled.
“No.”
Patrick twisted around as much as the seat belt would let him, the scowl on his face an ugly thing that Jono wanted to wipe away. “What the fuck do you want?”
Hermes smirked at them, not at all perturbed about being locked in a car with their anger. “I’m here with a message from Hera. She wants to speak with you.”
“She could’ve rang,” Jono growled.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Hermes leaned forward, causing Patrick to pull back. “She and Zeus are back from Greece. They’re waiting for you at her home and require an audience.”
“We’re parking, and then we’re sleeping,” Patrick said.
“The parking spot will still be here when you return. Now drive.”
Jono tightened his grip on the steering wheel, hearing the leather creak from the pressure. “Does she know anything about what happened tonight?”
Hermes flopped backward. “Your loss was not our doing.”
Jono was certain he could trace every loss experienced by Patrick back to the gods, but he bit his tongue on that observation. He waited for Patrick to decide on what course of action to take because it wasn’t Jono’s right. Not with this.
Patrick pressed his palms over his eyes and rubbed at them hard. “Drive.”
Jono drove, not needing directions from their backseat driver. He remembered where Hera’s home was in Manhattan. The seven-story mansion was protected by gargoyles, the numbers seemingly doubled from their last visit. They parked out front where a spot was available, probably due to a little bit of magic.
Jono ignored the grating growls that greeted them from the gargoyles once they exited the Mustang. Hermes led the way to the double-door entrance of the home, opening it without needing a key.
The home was summer-warm inside. Jono couldn’t tell if that was central heating or the gods that were present. He could sense more than just Hera and Zeus in the home, and he didn’t like being outnumbered.
Fenrir roused once they crossed the threshold, teeth and claws sliding through Jono’s thoughts, pricking at his control. Beyond the god’s presence was the hint of Ginnungagap, Jono’s awareness of the primordial void making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Wait, Jono told the god in the quiet of his mind.
There was no need to let Fenrir out in the Greek pantheon’s territory. Depending on how they treated Patrick, Jono would give over his body without a fight. He and Fenrir had come to a delicate agreement over the god’s reach through Jono’s physical presence. He wouldn’t fight Fenrir, so long as the god listened to his reasons for holding back.
“This way,” Hermes said.
Rather than going to the roof with its patio and garden, they were led to the third floor, to a room with a gold-veined white marble floor and wide windows overlooking Central Park. Two chairs that could have doubled as thrones were positioned in front of the windows. An altar took up an entire wall beneath a mural of the Greek countryside, dominated by a vision of Hera granting blessings to devotees kneeling before her. It was blindingly colorful, and Jono was reminded that the white marble of the Parthenon and its ilk used to be painted like a rainbow.
Time made everything fade though, even the gods they stood before.
Hera and Zeus were dressed in modern clothes that were far more in fashion than Hermes’ jeans and faded band T-shirt. They could’ve passed easily as a Wall Street tycoon and his socialite wife, which was how they had lived before losing their current human aliases and retreating to Greece last year.
Hermes waved his hand at Patrick and Jono as he sauntered across the floor, battered Doc Martens squeaking a little on the marble. He sketched a slight bow in the direction of those who headed his pantheon. “Your guests, as promised.”
“We asked for the debtor alone,” Zeus said, sounding slightly irritated.
“I go where Patrick goes,” Jono shot back.
Hera’s smile was a bit mocking, but he expected nothing less from this lot. “Of course you do. That’s why we gods gave you to him.”
“You can preach about that bollocks all you like, but I know where I stand with Patrick, and none of you dictated my choices.”
“You carry our cousin in your soul. Do you honestly think he had no say in how you feel?”
Jono loved Patrick of his own free will, and he’d be damned if the gods took credit for the matters of his heart. “I promised Patrick I’d be his weapon. Fenrir never influenced me the way you think he does.”
Hera opened her mouth to speak, but her teeth snapped shut with a clack as Fenrir poured through Jono’s soul and mind, control a shared experience rather than a fight.
“This one is not yours, cousin,” Fenrir said with Jono’s mouth. “Watch your words.”
Hera’s gaze flicked to Patrick, and Jono wanted badly to put himself between them. Fenrir kept him where he was, and Jono didn’t fight the god.
“We all felt when Ginnungagap touched this earth once again,” Zeus said, his voice rumbling like a storm through the large room. “The beginning to an end called us back to these shores.”
Patrick stiffened a little beside Jono, but he couldn’t reach out to comfort him in any way, not with Fenrir clawing beneath his skin.
“Ginnungagap is not your concern,” Fenrir said.
“What approaches is all of our concern. Every god who walks this earth on the mortal plane is aware of what comes.”
Armageddon. Ragnarök. Judgment Day. The Fifth World. It had many names across many continents and adherents, but the end-times were all the same in the only way that mattered.
An ending.
Jono knew that from Fenrir and Patrick, but it didn’t make it any easier to face.
Hera pushed herself to her feet, the diamond-tipped gold pins keeping her riot of loose curls in place glinting in the light from the chandeliers. She strode forward, high heels clicking against the marble. The goddess came to stand in front of Jono, her aura breaking open between one blink and the next, haloing her body like the sun.
“Your teeth found Odin once before, cousin. I wonder what they will find this time?” Hera asked.
“This is all our fight,” Fenrir reminded her.
Her attention shifted to Patrick. “Some more than others.”
“I know what needs to be done, but we aren’t going to be enough even with all our alliances. Quetzalcoatl warned as much. Gods within your pantheon and others are helping Ethan out. If you aren’t willing to back us when it matters, then you can’t blame me for the fallout,” Patrick said.
“Our stories aren’t yours.”
“You’ve tied him to the gods of heaven through a soul debt. It is in all our interests to ensure he sees it through,” Fenrir said.
Hera’s gaze snapped back to them, eyes narrowing. “His blood is at fault.”
Jono felt himself smile, the sharpness of his teeth catching on his lips. “I do not argue that. I argue where you place the blame. One of yours took half of the twins to ensure a way forward. Yet it is also one of your own who perpetuates an alliance with Ethan and the Dominion Sect. Mortals have a saying about glass houses. Be careful of your stones, cousin.”
Hera stared at them with enough animosity in her gaze that Jono could almost feel the heat of her anger. Behind her, Zeus got to his feet and went over to his wife’s altar to pour himself a glass of red wine.
“Do what you promised,” Zeus said, attention on Patrick. “Finish what your family started and pay the debt you owe us.”
Patrick’s expression was stony as Fenrir faded to the background and Jono found himself in control again, capable of looking at his lover. He ignored Hera in favor of taking Patrick’s hand in his.
“Let’s go home,” Jono said.
The gods didn’t stop their leaving, and if they had tried, Jono would’ve gone for their throats, Fenrir’s tee
th always willing to bite.
Jono locked the door to their flat, watching with worried eyes as Patrick made a beeline for the kitchen. The sound of a cupboard opening and a bottle clinking on the counter made him sigh quietly.
“That won’t do anything but give you a hangover,” Jono said gently when he went into the kitchen.
Patrick hadn’t even bothered with a glass, simply drinking straight from the bottle. “That’s a tomorrow problem.”
“It is tomorrow.”
Because it was after midnight, early on a Friday morning, one week from Samhain, and the warnings they’d received in two cities tonight was stress Jono could’ve done without. When it looked like Patrick would keep drinking until he found the bottom of the whiskey bottle, Jono removed it from his hands with a firm tug.
“Jono—” Patrick snapped.
“No.” Jono turned him around, pushing him back against the counter. “I’m not letting you grieve like this. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Patrick drew in a sharp breath before surging forward, kissing Jono so hard their teeth knocked together. Jono lifted a hand, tangling his fingers in Patrick’s hair to tilt his head back, holding on while they kissed with a ferocity that went straight to his cock.
Desire was salt-tinged between them, whiskey on his tongue, Patrick’s bitter scent in his nose. Jono breathed it all in, licking deep into Patrick’s mouth, swallowing the strangled gasp that tried to escape. He hauled Patrick up into his arms, hands curved over his arse. Patrick wrapped his legs around Jono’s waist, still kissing him.
“I want you to fuck me,” Patrick got out between biting kisses that tasted like whiskey.
Jono wasn’t about to argue because he’d rather Patrick drown in him than a bottle. He carried Patrick out of the kitchen and to their bedroom, dropping him on the bed before turning on the lamp rather than the overhead lights.
Patrick was already divesting himself of his weapons, shoes, and clothes, eyes on Jono. He stripped out of his own clothes, tossing them about the bedroom floor before crawling onto the bed, chasing after Patrick’s mouth. He reached for Jono, fingers frantic in their touch, clawing at his skin.
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