A Veiled & Hallowed Eve

by Hailey Turner

  “If you want your daughter back, then get the fuck out of my way,” Patrick said.

  Jono’s growl of agreement was loud enough to vibrate through Patrick’s chest from two feet away, his lover still pissed at what had happened in Salem.

  “You know that’s not how this works,” Hades said.

  “It could be. Your wife would want it to be.”

  Hades’ expression twisted, hands curled, calling hellfire to him. “You know nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He’d seen the way they’d looked at each other in Salem. For all her fury and demands, Patrick knew Persephone could forgive her husband even if she’d never forgive anyone else the transgressions Hades had let pass.

  “I owe Persephone a debt. Let me pay it,” Patrick said.

  “Your debt is meaningless when hell is already here.”

  Patrick’s gaze snapped unbidden to the demon-infested sky above and the countless dead massed around them on the ground.

  Hades raised his hands higher and gestured sharply, fingers spread wide. The hellfire surrounding them spun like a fire tornado, rising into the air. It was enough of a distraction for Patrick to miss Cerberus’ arrival, but Jono didn’t.

  The three-headed beast charged through the circle of hellfire, but Jono met him halfway. Jono, with Fenrir’s help, forced Cerberus away from Patrick with vicious bites and swipes of his claws. The momentum of their fight sent them careening past the circle of hellfire, the dead clawing at their fur as demons screamed overhead.

  Around them in the street and in the park, zombies rose and fell in a wave as Spencer’s magic and that of the Morrígan’s staff backed by Ilya’s fought for control of the dead. Hades hadn’t moved, and Patrick didn’t know how he’d get past the god to Andras.

  Then Ashanti blurred to a stop beside Patrick, hands dripping blood, mouth red with it. She only had eyes for Hades, and the god’s attention shifted from Patrick to her, a stillness settling over his body.

  “Still here, I see,” Hades said.

  Ashanti stood as tall as her diminutive stature would let her, her godhead seeping out of her aura with far more intensity than the hellfire. Ozone hung heavy in the air, mixing with sulfur on Patrick’s tongue. When Ashanti stepped forward, her bone hooks snapped the spine of a skeleton, and she kicked it aside.

  The mother of all vampires spread her arms, clothes a ruined mess, skin black like the night that hadn’t yet fallen. “I have always been here, long before you were ever prayed into existence, cousin. I, who walked this world first, chose my side. The right side.”

  “Kill them,” Andras ordered from behind Hades.

  Patrick noticed how Andras’ attention was no longer on the battle but on Ashanti. The mother of all vampires had a hunger on her face when she looked at Andras that had her focusing like the predator she was. Patrick figured she wouldn’t be satiated by anything less than the Great Marquis of Hell.

  “Choose. Now. Or be forgotten,” Ashanti said, her eyes on Andras, but her words were for Hades.

  Hades didn’t move, not until Ashanti did, and even then, it wasn’t to fight her.

  It wasn’t even to defend Andras.

  The dagger that appeared in Hades’ hand and found its way to Ilya’s heart was unexpected in its violence as the Greek god found a different target. Patrick could see the way bone caved in, blood flowing from Ilya’s mouth like a waterfall. The black of his eyes became rimmed with negative light as Andras turned Ilya’s head to stare at Hades with incandescent rage, as all around them, the demons summoned from hell screamed their fury.

  “Traitor,” Andras snarled, spitting blood with the word.

  Hades pressed the blade deeper into Ilya’s chest, his expression almost serene in its viciousness. “Speaks the Fallen.”

  Between one blink and the next, Ashanti found her way to Andras, clawed fingers digging into Ilya’s throat and peeling back layers of skin and muscle. Hades let go of the dagger while Andras tried to let go of the body the demon had inhabited. But Ashanti had her iron teeth in a vein and in the essence of the demon’s soul. That was a fight Patrick didn’t want to get in the middle of, but he had no choice.

  Patrick threw himself across the hellfire, the heat almost suffocating, even through his shields. Ashanti was tangled up in Ilya’s body and Andras’ incorporeal presence, but it was the Morrígan’s staff that held all of Patrick’s attention.

  Hades hadn’t reached for it, all his focus on watching Ashanti try to devour Andras. Patrick wasn’t wearing the sort of iron gauntlet Ilya had on. Neither did he have Srecha’s blessing burned into his palm. But he knew better than to touch the staff with his bare hand after what he’d gone through in Paris.

  The next best thing was cutting off Ilya’s.

  Patrick followed Ashanti and her prey down to the ground, dagger already cutting into the limb right above the iron gauntlet. The matte-black blade wasn’t a saw, but the prayers in its making made the edge sharper than anything had a right to be. It sliced through Ilya’s arm with sickening ease, severing it in seconds.

  Blood poured out of the limb, sliding over Patrick’s hand and the hilt of the dagger. He grabbed the gauntleted wrist with his left hand and lurched away from the rapidly dying necromancer, getting to his feet. Andras was proving to be a formidable opponent even in an incorporeal form against Ashanti. Despite the way he’d fled from her in Central Park, he had no choice but to fight her now, not when she had her teeth in what passed for his soul.

  Lightning exploded overhead—from Thor or Hinon, Patrick couldn’t tell. The spots that danced across his vision coalesced into something else. Flying through the ranks of demons, like black spots in an afterimage, were thousands and thousands of ravens and crows, their shrieking caws a discordant sound to the cries of demons.

  Ilya’s fingers were still wrapped around the staff; Patrick curled his own over the iron there to keep the staff in place. He was careful not to touch the notched wood, though he could sense the hunger, the near sentience, that existed in the weapon. It grated against his soul, as if it remembered him and the prayers he’d given it along with a blessing to bring Ashanti back.

  But standing there at the edge of the world, Patrick didn’t have anything left to give up except the weapon in his hand. Breathing heavily, Patrick raised it over his head, the quartz crystal shining with magic, as all around him, the dead turned to look.

  Patrick drew in a breath and let it out on a yell. “Morrígan! I call you to war!”

  28

  Jono was prepared to rip out all three of Cerberus’ throats, but he never got the chance.

  Patrick’s cry reached his ears, and he backed away from the beast, wary when Cerberus didn’t immediately charge at him. The hellfire they’d escaped went out, and two of Cerberus’ heads turned toward its master. One kept its sinister red eyes locked on Jono, tail still lashing, but the beast stayed put.

  Hades stood between Jono and Patrick, but the god wasn’t moving. Ashanti had Ilya’s body on the ground, her hunger a match even for the Great Marquis of Hell as they battled it out. She seemed impervious to the demons trying to dive at her, though they couldn’t seem to get close. Lightning flashed again, followed by thunder, and in that momentary illumination, Jono saw the sky full of thousands of wings that didn’t belong to demons.

  Jono returned to where Patrick stood, holding the Morrígan’s staff aloft by a cut-off gauntleted hand. The weapon hummed with power, making the very air around it vibrate. Fenrir bit at Jono’s mind, the warning sharp.

  War comes, Fenrir said.

  With the god’s help, his vision sharpened, enabling Jono to see details in the twilight even his preternaturally enhanced sight wouldn’t be able to pick out. The ravens and crows that blotted out the sky in between demons swarmed together, coming down like the tip of a tornado seeking the earth. The wind howled all around them, the pitch of it like ghostly screams as it spun the demons away from the center of the fight.

&nbs
p; Jono pressed his shoulder to Patrick’s side, planting all four feet against the muddy ground. The dead surrounding them lurched ever closer, empty eye sockets or rotten cavities staring at the Morrígan’s staff. Jono growled a warning, but Patrick didn’t seem to hear him, all his attention on the weapon in his hand and the sky above.

  The downdraft that suddenly hit brought Patrick to his knees, his right arm going around Jono’s back. Jono stayed upright through sheer stubbornness, though his head was forced lower as the wind burst outward all around them with a continuous pressure. It slammed into the battle, indiscriminate of sides, forcing everyone back and to the ground. The sound of wings flapping all around them was a buzz that turned into a hissing white noise, drowning everything else out.

  Patrick’s arm shook as he held the Morrígan’s staff aloft, lips peeled back in a harsh grimace of pain. He wasn’t touching the notched wood of the weapon, but the mere act of holding it was dangerous. Jono wanted to grab it and toss it out of reach, half wondering if Fenrir would be enough protection in that act.

  “I can’t—” Patrick gasped out, his arm dipping, elbow bending.

  Jono twisted his head around, shoving closer so Patrick could rest both arms on his back. Jono held the both of them up as they found themselves inside a vortex of ravens and crows, the shining quartz crystal their only source of light. It was enough to reveal the war goddess descending from the storm clouds, the smell of ozone practically choking Jono.

  The Morrígan was pale-skinned and thin in the way starving things hungered. Her hooded cloak was made with a thousand black feathers, and it drifted around her body like wings. Her bare feet were covered in grave dirt, and her splayed hands were stained red with blood along her fingertips. The gown she wore was sleeveless, tangling around her knees. The only bright thing about her was the golden torque she wore, the triple moon carved on the rounded ends that rested against her collarbones shining like sunlight.

  “Cousin,” Fenrir said in greeting.

  The Morrígan’s feet touched the earth, and the ground trembled as if welcoming her. “Vánagandr.”

  Patrick pushed himself upright and offered the Morrígan her staff, his arm shaking with the effort of holding it. “This belongs to you.”

  The war goddess raised her hands to draw back her hood, revealing inky black hair braided back along her skull and threaded through with feathers. Her eyes, when revealed, were a blue-gray reminiscent of bruised skin on a corpse.

  The Morrígan reached for her staff, curling her fingers around the notched wood of the pole. Patrick let it go, and Jono watched as the severed hand in its iron gauntlet fell to the ground. The Morrígan drew the staff close, the light from the quartz crystal shining impossibly brighter. The glow washed her out, illuminating the ravens and crows that still whirled around them, crying out to their mistress.

  “You call for war,” the Morrígan said.

  “War was already happening. We’re just here to end it,” Patrick said.

  The Morrígan raised the staff above her head, fingers tightening around the notched wood of the pole. “War never ends.”

  “Someone else can fight it, then, after this battle is over.”

  The goddess of war smiled, her gaze turning to the heavens. “So be it.”

  When the Morrígan slammed the butt of her staff to the ground, Jono had to dig in his claws to stay upright. The concussive force of her magic rolled through them, knocking Patrick to his knees. Jono angled his body to try to shield Patrick from the pressure, and he felt Patrick turn his head into his fur.

  The ravens and crows winged higher into the sky, cutting through the demons like missiles. Bodies fell to the earth, trailing blood and smoke, as the ravens and crows searched for new targets. In their wake, the battlefield was revealed.

  In a stunning shift, every single zombie went from fighting against the gods and those allied with Jono’s god pack to turning on the demons, hunters, and Dominion Sect magic users. The panicked shouts turned into screams of terror as the walking dead obeyed their rightful mistress once more.

  “Go,” the Morrígan said to them, already turning to join the fight.

  Fenrir wrangled control from Jono, long enough to say, “May the battle born always pray to you.”

  The war goddess tipped her head in acknowledgment, the gesture fleeting as the ravens and crows called to her from the sky. The Morrígan’s feathered cloak rippled in the wind like wings as she strode forward over the bodies of the dead, staff held tight in her hand, exactly where it belonged.

  Patrick leaned against Jono for a second before straightening up. “Let’s go.”

  He stumbled toward the park, and Jono could only follow. The grayed-out lines of the spellwork stretched around them, the concentric circles pulsing with power as if they were alive. Jono saw hints of light beginning to crack through, like lava sliding through its hardened top as it flowed. Ginnungagap could no longer keep the sacrificial spell in check.

  This is a beginning, Fenrir said into Jono’s mind.

  I thought it was an end? Jono asked.

  It is whatever you make it be.

  As riddled warnings went, it wasn’t any worse than what the Norns had given them.

  Patrick lengthened his stride, picking up the pace. The air vibrated with magic, the taste of hell scratching at the back of Jono’s throat. Nothing good waited for them up ahead.

  Mageglobes cut through the air, heading their way. Patrick’s magic streaked forward to intercept the enemy’s attack, but he wasn’t able to intercept them all. Jono was all set to knock Patrick down and cover him when one of Nadine’s shields slammed down around them. The spells crashed against her defense, ripples flowing through the shield, but it didn’t break.

  Gunfire erupted from behind them, aiming around Nadine’s shield for their targets. People cried out in pain up ahead—whether from bullet wounds or getting ripped apart by zombies, Jono couldn’t tell.

  “Patrick!” Nadine shouted.

  Jono saw Nadine and Spencer before he smelled them, the wind worse now than it was hours ago. Nadine nearly tripped over a pile of bones as she and Spencer closed the distance between them. Lucien ran beside them with Carmen a half step behind. Jono had lost sight of the master vampire at the start of the fight at the Battery, but he should’ve known even a battle like this wouldn’t off the bloke.

  Sage let out a roar as she ran toward them, zombies paying her no attention. Jono howled a warning when he caught sight of a hunter taking aim at her, but the man went up in flames courtesy of a blast of dragon fire. Wade’s roar was louder than Sage’s as he picked off anyone who might be a problem behind them, no longer pinned down by demons. The ravens and crows, backed by the Morrígan’s power, were doing an incredible amount of damage alongside the valkyries and Hinon.

  “What now?” Spencer asked, panting for breath as the others reached their position.

  Patrick’s hand settled between Jono’s ears, dagger held in his other one. “We go through whoever is left to get to Ethan.”

  Jono glanced over at Patrick, huffing out a soft growl of agreement. The soulbond was pulled tight between them, heavy with magic drawn from the ley lines below.

  “Don’t fuck it up,” Lucien said.

  Jono thought about biting the arsehole, but Fenrir wouldn’t let him.

  Patrick stepped forward, and Jono stayed right by his side, as did Sage. Jono shared a look with his dire, the pair of them coming to a silent agreement to stay with Patrick from here on out.

  Zombies filled the park, but the dead no longer accosted them. They had other targets now, and there was plenty of the enemy for the dead to kill. Dominion Sect magic users had to split their attention between Jono’s group and the horde of zombies that never stopped attacking, courtesy of the Morrígan. It made getting past them easier, but not easy.

  So Wade cleared them a path.

  He launched himself into the air, flapping his wings hard to hover overhead. His long neck snake
d down, mouth opening wide for the fire that came roaring out. Wade burned everything standing in the way between where they stood and Castle Clinton National Monument. The old sandstone fort was covered in spellwork lines whose magic was breaking through Ginnungagap’s hold.

  The fort itself was cradled between a tangle of roots at the base of Yggdrasil, the world tree blocking out the sky this deep into the Battery. Jono couldn’t see the shoreline behind it, but the dead who had followed Hel were hopefully no longer a problem.

  They ran over charred grass and bone, heading for the sandstone and pillared entrance of Castle Clinton. Nadine’s shield kept off stray bullets and spells, but no one came after them. The magic saturating the air tasted poisonous to Jono, burning his nose.

  Beneath it, he could smell ozone.

  They didn’t make it to the entrance before the spellwork lines came back to life, glowing malevolently against the walls of the old fort. Ginnungagap had been a pressure between Jono’s teeth since Fenrir had released the yawning void, and now that pressure disappeared.

  They all skidded to a stop, staring at the magic burning back to life. Then Patrick yanked up the left sleeve of his leather jacket, his intentions clear. Jono immediately clamped his teeth over Patrick’s bare wrist, bite gentle, staring at him.

  Don’t, he wanted to say.

  Patrick seemed to hear him anyway.

  “Blood always calls to blood. I’ll walk us through it,” Patrick said.

  He gently pushed at Jono’s nose with the knuckles of his right hand, the shine of the dagger he held growing brighter. Jono reluctantly let him go, licking at his fingers. He watched Patrick drag the blade over his skin, cutting through the scabs of Ashanti’s touch given in the Morgan Library. Fresh blood welled up, sliding down his arm, the coppery tang of it filling Jono’s nose.

  Patrick dragged two fingers across the cut and brushed his bloody fingers over Jono’s snout, then Sage’s. He gathered more blood, then turned to smear some across Nadine’s and Spencer’s foreheads like a macabre benediction.