“I thought we used them all up last year?” she asked.
“Hermes left one with Patrick when he was in hospital. I didn’t want to leave it behind in case we could use it, but I can’t carry it with me when I shift.”
Nadine took the coin and placed it in a secured pouch on her belt. “I’ll keep it safe.”
Jono nodded. “I know you will.”
She was Patrick’s best friend, and he’d seen the shields she could hold back in Paris. Jono looked over his shoulder at everyone who remained. “Let’s go hold our territory.”
Nadine took the lead downstairs, mageglobes forming around her as she went. Members of Emma’s Tempest pack who hadn’t been upstairs joined them on the way down or were already waiting for them on the ground floor.
Ashanti peered through the side window by the door and let out a pleased hum. “It seems your request has already been granted, wolf.”
Jono came up behind her, squinting through the glass at the fog drifting through the street, the rain unable to dissipate it. His eyes widened at the sight that met him. “Nadine.”
“I see her,” she said, opening up the front door.
They stepped outside into the roar of a reactionary storm not even the veil could swallow whole. The wind and rain drenched Jono in seconds as they exited the building. Nadine hadn’t bothered with a personal shield to keep the rain out, conserving her energy. She didn’t immediately raise a larger one.
On the street, unbothered by the pouring rain, the Cailleach Bheur offered them a toothy smile, her single stormy eye unblinking in her forehead. “Medb has opened the hawthorn paths and the crossroads they cradle to all and sundry. Tír na nÓg is falling into Earth. The rest of Underhill will soon follow.”
“It won’t be the only world to do so,” Ashanti said from behind Jono.
Jono scowled. “Then we push it back. It had its time here. All your heavens and hells did. This world is ours now.”
The Cailleach Bheur rapped her staff against the pavement, ice expanding around where she stood. “Ethan would make it his.”
“It doesn’t belong to that bastard either.”
Shadows skittered through the fog along Fifth Avenue off to their left. Jono kept walking until he made it to the street where the Cailleach Bheur stood in a blanket of winter cold, attention on the threat coming their way. Emma and her pack spread out around him, some of them already shifting.
“We need to keep them here so they don’t go after Gerard in the veil. Let’s give them a fight,” Jono said.
The Cailleach Bheur turned to face the darkness of Central Park, the gray cloak she wore shifting around her naked body. She raised her staff high above her head before slamming it onto the ground. The crack that echoed in the air from the impact set Jono’s teeth on edge, but it drew the attention of the creatures creeping through the fog.
The spine-chilling cries that cut through the air weren’t human at all.
The Cailleach Bheur pointed her staff in the direction of Central Park, letting winter loose. Ice exploded forward to cover the cars parked on the street and those left by the wayside after the electrical grid had died. It flowed like a tsunami from the Cailleach Bheur’s staff, crashing into the first group of spider-looking fae crawling toward them, freezing them where they stood. Their brethren not immediately affected crashed right through the ice statues, shattering them to pieces.
“Resetting my barrier ward to expand. I’ll be your rearguard,” Nadine called out.
Glittering violet-colored magic peeled away from Sage’s and Marek’s home, expanding outward. It burned brighter than usual against the grayness that had taken over the world, like a beacon the enemy couldn’t resist being drawn to.
Jono narrowed his eyes at the sound that reached his ears—the movement of hundreds of bodies in a tight space coming up behind the fae. Beneath the scent of winter, Jono could smell the dead.
The fog shifted, twisting around shadows that became an ugly mass of bones. The remnants of those who once resided beneath Paris slipped free of the veil, backed by fae from the Unseelie Court climbing out of the hawthorn path in Central Park.
“Keep them off our streets,” Jono called out before he started to shift.
The breaking of his body came easily to him, nerves switching off his ability to feel pain as the world shifted around him. Skin split, muscle tore, and bones twisted into new positions. The shift from human to wolf took less than a minute, but that was more than enough time for the zombies to halve the distance between them.
Ashanti landed in a crouch beside him when he finally stood on four feet instead of two. She smiled at him, the excitement in her scent that of a predator ready for the kill.
“It has been an age since we have hunted like this. Shall we, wolf?” Ashanti asked.
Fenrir flowed through Jono’s soul and mind, sinking into every last crevice of who he was. Jono let him, not minding the god’s presence in the face of hell.
“Let us shake the world,” Fenrir said, the god’s voice coming out harsh around teeth and tongue not meant to speak in the form they were in.
When Fenrir charged forward with a challenging howl that echoed eerily in the air, two goddesses joined him, and the Tempest pack followed in their wake. Nadine kept growing the radius of her shields in meters, the edge of it nipping at their heels as they dove fangs and claws first into the horde.
Fenrir rode Jono’s consciousness but didn’t fight him for control. The god was ever present as Jono ripped his way through the zombies, shattering bones between his teeth as he clawed at the fae moving between the dead. Those were more irritating than the zombies, with gangly limbs and claws that could find their way deep into his fur if he didn’t shake them off quick enough.
The werewolves around him were a snarling mass of support that spanned the width of the street amidst parked and abandoned cars. They needed to push the fae back so Nadine could set her shield’s boundaries over the block. But like in Paris, the dead kept coming, and even with the Cailleach Bheur and Ashanti lending their power to the fight, the sheer number of the dead and the Unseelie Court fae coming at them would overwhelm their position soon.
Jono kicked out with his hind paws, slamming them into an abandoned car and sending it crashing through a group of zombies. It created space for himself and Emma to maneuver in as they fought the next wave of fae. They were about to charge when the glow from Nadine’s magic disappeared in the area they stood in, and Jono tensed.
The crackle of her magic was replaced by the thunder of hooves.
Jono wrenched his head around in time to catch a glimpse of a familiar streak of gold and black darting forward through the legs of werewolves, bits of the veil trailing from between her small teeth as Fatima yowled a vicious challenge.
A group of Seelie fae warriors on horses galloped their way from the intersection behind them, Órlaith leading the charge, a sword clutched in one hand, her armor gleaming. Perched behind her, one hand outstretched around her, sat PIA Agent Spencer Bailey dressed for a fight, a dark green mageglobe burning against his palm.
The dead around them fell in waves, Fatima drawing their souls into her mouth and guiding them to where they belonged at the behest of Spencer’s uncanny magic. Órlaith’s steed galloped past Nadine, and Spencer flung himself off it at her position. He stumbled on the landing, but Nadine grabbed his shoulder, steadying him.
“Sorry I’m late!” Spencer shouted. “I needed a ride in.”
Jono faced forward again with a snarl as Órlaith’s steed clambered onto a frozen car with inhuman sure-footedness. It might look like a horse, but it had fae blood running through its veins. The rain beat down on them both, flattening Jono’s fur and weighing down her thick braid.
Órlaith looked down at him with a fierceness to her gaze. “What do you need?”
Fenrir took control of Jono’s voice, words tearing through his teeth. “A barrier they can’t get through.”
Órlaith nodded tig
htly before she pointed her sword at the brambles still pushing over and through the wall surrounding Central Park. “Pull your people back.”
Jono threw his head up and howled, putting power into the wordless command. Emma’s pack retreated over the bones of the dead and iced-over cars, weaving past the fae soldiers who had come up to form ranks around Órlaith and Jono.
The Cailleach Bheur and Ashanti slipped past the horses to stand by Jono. Ashanti’s lips were covered in black blood, her clawed fingers wet with it. She seemed unconcerned about the horde of zombies and Unseelie Court fae still coming their way.
Órlaith sheathed her sword, freeing both hands. She extended her arms outward and clenched her hands into fists. For a second, nothing happened. Then the earth began to shake in such a way that Jono worried about the integrity of the buildings around them and the subway below.
The color of the brambles went from black to a dark green as Órlaith’s magic called forth the life of summer. The fae screeched a challenge, but Órlaith was the Summer Lady of the Seelie Court and Brigid’s heir. Even in the in-between plane of existence that New York City had fallen into, there was still life, and Órlaith called it forth.
The brambles exploded, growing twice as fast and doubling in size in seconds. The tangled maze of thorns and branches cut through the enemy on Fifth Avenue, blood spraying through the air. As the bramble barricade grew, wintery ice filled every space between the thorns, until an icy wall the width of Fifth Avenue, two blocks in length, and three stories high settled into place.
Nadine’s barrier ward passed over them to anchor itself to the base Órlaith and the Cailleach Bheur had created. The dome of her shield encompassed their block and the one beside it, supporting what the pair of immortals had created.
“This will not stop them forever,” Ashanti warned.
“It only needs to stop them until we plan our next move,” Órlaith said coolly.
Jono worked his way backward, bone crunching beneath his paws, until he could leap over a car and make it to the sidewalk. Crouched low, he shifted back to human with a speed that almost made him dizzy, Fenrir helping him back to human shape. Without fur, he shivered in the biting cold that had settled over their street, feeling it in a way he normally never did.
“Who did you bring with you other than Spencer?” Jono asked over his shoulder.
Órlaith maneuvered her steed off the car. “A strike team of warriors. We came through before the hawthorn path fell. Brigid is fighting for control of it on the other side. When she gets here, she will aid you, cousin.”
Jono glanced back at the ice and bramble wall filling the street beneath Nadine’s shield. Hermes’ warning to stay in one place rang through his head, but it would be meaningless if they died under siege.
“How long can you both keep up the barriers?” Jono asked.
Nadine squinted up at the mix of magic and ice walling them off from Central Park. “Under normal circumstances, I can hold a shield up for days. We’re within the veil’s boundaries now. If it’s going to be like Cairo, I’ll want to conserve my strength.”
“I was on the other side in New Jersey with a group of PIA agents when Órlaith showed up with her riders. Scared the shit out of the soldiers with us,” Spencer said.
“Didn’t take you long to get here.”
Spencer shook his head. “Órlaith came on Monday. We traveled through the veil to get here, and we lost time. What I’m trying to say is the fight this time is going to be worse than Cairo. The damage to the veil is worse. More threats are coming across. I don’t know if defending one location would be better or worse than staying on the move.”
“A sitting target is still a dead target eventually,” Jono said.
“You risk Cú Chulainn being unable to return with Patrick,” Ashanti warned from her crouched position on a damaged car roof.
Jono scowled at her. “You lot soulbound Patrick and I together. He’ll be able to find me, or I’ll find him, when he gets back to New York.”
“Are you certain of that when we stand within the veil’s boundaries?”
He wasn’t, but Jono was sure of Patrick’s promise to come back to him. Whether guided by Gerard or the soulbond, Patrick would find his way to them.
“Have a little faith in the bloke who’s cleaning up your messes.” Jono looked back at the werecreatures ranged around him, staring at him with steady gazes, at the fae warriors on steeds who hadn’t set foot on this earth in countless generations. “We’ll leave your barrier up for as long as possible as a distraction while we head downtown.”
“The fae are already gathering for an attack. I can sense their presence beyond the barrier,” Órlaith said.
“They are not the only things coming this way,” the Cailleach Bheur said.
“We won’t be here when they arrive. We’ll take Park Avenue south for as long as possible,” Jono said.
He turned around and started down the street, intent on putting distance between his group and what clawed at the other side of the barrier behind him. Emma’s pack followed him, walking between vehicles and shoving them aside to provide room for Órlaith and her group’s steeds to walk through.
Nadine and Spencer dodged around iced-over cars to join him on the sidewalk, Fatima trotting at Spencer’s heels. She let out a trill, causing Spencer to glance down at her.
“She wants to know where Wade is,” Spencer said.
Jono’s shoulders tightened. “With Sage at Bellevue. Hopefully safe.”
“Bellevue?”
“She was gutted by a hunter’s poisoned blade. She couldn’t shift. She was in hospital when the veil tore.”
Spencer looked stricken, pausing long enough to pick up Fatima and cradle the psychopomp in his arms. “Fuck. What about Patrick?”
“Being his usual self-sacrificing, idiotic self,” Nadine muttered.
Spencer winced, giving Jono a sympathetic look. “Oh, that’s never good.”
“He’s coming back,” Jono said, lengthening his stride.
Spencer nodded absent agreement, half his attention on Fatima as they walked. “She says there are more dead in this direction than at Central Park.”
Jono nodded and stopped long enough to shift back to wolf, body breaking and ripping to a different form. When he stood on four legs once again, Jono shook his head to settle his vision before leading the way to their next fight.
21
The grave was filling with water.
Patrick blinked slowly up at the stormy sky he could see far above where he lay at the bottom of the six-foot-deep grave, mind disconnected from a body he couldn’t move. There was no coffin beneath him, just cold mud soaking all the warmth out of him. He blinked again, lips pressed stubbornly shut against the rain, wondering if he’d burn up from the spell first or drown.
Zachary’s spellwork was extensive, the pentagram folded down into the grave with Patrick lying on its center. The ugly shade of his magic burned brighter than the lightning that Patrick could occasionally see flash across the sky. It wrapped around his body, cut through his skin to settle like poison in the burned remnants of the shield anchors carved into his bones.
He could feel the flow of magic draining out of the nexus below, flowing through a carved-out hole in the defenses his soul was helping to keep open. The tiny, lingering thread that tied him to his twin sister—what he’d felt back in Chicago and subsequently buried—had been forced wide open like an old broken dam.
He could sense through it the overload in Hannah’s soul, the way it flowed into her and through her to Ethan, the way it always must have. Patrick thought the burned-out channels in his damaged soul ached, but his pain was nothing compared to the raw agony that existed in the remnants of Hannah’s soul.
Being the center of the spellwork holding open a back door to the nexus meant his own soul was overloaded by Zachary’s magic, forcing his heart out of rhythm from time to time with every spike of power. If this was what Eloise had been put through
since being captured, it was a wonder she was even alive. She wasn’t a mage, just blood kin recognized by the generational wards around the nexus, and really, that was all Ethan had ever needed for Zachary to work with.
His blood.
Zachary came into view, standing at the edge of the grave. The red-black mageglobe hovering at his shoulder burned like a miniature sun, providing enough light to see his face by.
“The spellwork is holding,” Zachary called over his shoulder. “I don’t know why Ethan sent you. You’re needed in Manhattan.”
“The spellwork was disrupted when Hades removed the woman from it. I am here to ensure it remains intact and report back on my findings,” a familiar demonic voice said, sending fear snaking down Patrick’s spine.
“That disruption was not my fault.”
“Hades is lucky the trade was worthwhile. Ethan wasn’t pleased about the backlash that happened with the body swap.”
A second figure came to stand on the other side of the grave, Ilya Nazarov’s face illuminated by Zachary’s magic, though it was Andras, Grand Marquis of Hell, that spoke through the necromancer. They held in one iron-gauntleted hand the Morrígan’s staff, whole once more.
Patrick stared up at the demon through the rain, panic eating away at the edges of his thoughts. He’d been woken up by too many nightmares over the past weeks about being a prisoner in his own body, screaming into a void, lost in his own skin. Facing the cause of his nightmares again made him want to scream, but he couldn’t.
Patrick wondered if Ilya had willingly accepted the demon into his soul or if Ethan hadn’t given him a choice. The Morrígan’s staff couldn’t be wielded by mortals, not without a price. It stood to reason Andras’ presence in Ilya would help the necromancer command it.
What sentience existed in that weapon could really only be controlled by a god.
Patrick hoped Andras wasn’t up to the task.
Andras stared down at him, face cast in shadow, before he suddenly flung Ilya’s body off the edge of the gravesite. His feet sank into the mud on either side of Patrick’s hips, the malevolent presence of the Morrígan’s staff biting at Patrick’s soul, as if it remembered him.
A Veiled & Hallowed Eve Page 23