A Veiled & Hallowed Eve

by Hailey Turner

  “How are you doing with all of that?”

  She reached up to tuck a stray piece of pale ginger hair behind her ear. Her hairdo had been slightly disturbed by the wind upon her arrival, the chill outside enough these days that Jono had turned the heat on in anticipation of this visit.

  “I’m…okay,” Eloise admitted.

  “We got her checked out by a healer after the fight in Salem was over. She needs more rest but should make a full recovery,” Grant said, offering up more details.

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” Jono said.

  “What about the Salem nexus?” Sage asked.

  Madelyn shared a look with her mother before choosing to answer. “The government is insisting they take over control of it. My brothers are reluctant, but Mother and I think it’s the right step. We don’t have many mages in the coven, and it’s clear that the generational wards ultimately failed.”

  “Knowing now how we were complicit in Hannah’s pain isn’t something I think I’ll ever forgive myself for,” Eloise admitted.

  Jono shook his head. “The only one who deserves blame is Ethan. You didn’t know your granddaughter was still alive. You couldn’t have known how he was using her against you.”

  “Perhaps. But we want to make sure something like this doesn’t happen again to our family, or to anyone else’s.”

  Jono couldn’t tell her that he didn’t think it ever would because of the memories that had been stolen by the gods. Ethan’s desires had remained in the global consciousness if the news was anything to go by, but the details of his attempts to turn himself into a god would be forever forgotten. These days, everyone thought Ethan had been after the cumulative power of the nexuses. Jono was fine with everyone believing that god-perpetuated lie.

  “Protection of the Salem nexus has been our responsibility for generations. That task has defined our family and coven for so long that I’m worried how we’ll be perceived in its absence,” Grant said.

  “Magic evolves. So must we,” Eloise said gently. Grant let out a heavy sigh and nodded at his mother’s words.

  “Okay, I have flower tea, grass tea, and some black tea that tastes like char, but no iced tea because Jono thinks that’s a crime against humanity,” Wade called out from the kitchen. “Who wants what?”

  Jono sighed heavily and stared up at the ceiling. “I promise we’ve been teaching him manners.”

  Madelyn laughed softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I think Wade would get along well with the kids. You’ll have to bring him the next time you come visit.”

  Jono just smiled, not promising anything at the moment. He was bound to New York City when not summoned to DC for the foreseeable future. He had no desire to go anywhere else, not without Patrick. Madelyn seemed to understand that, because her smile became a little wistful.

  Jono didn’t bother raising his voice when he answered Wade. “Just bring the whole lot.”

  “How has it been in New York?” Eloise asked after a moment.

  “We’re recovering. Slowly, but we are.”

  He wasn’t willing to go into details with the Pattersons. As much as they were Patrick’s family, none of them were close, despite how much he knew Eloise wanted to be. His pack’s ties to them ran through Patrick, and Jono was content to wait until he returned to get to know them.

  “All right, I have your kettle-boiled water,” Wade announced as he came out with mugs and tea boxes stacked on a cutting board in one hand and the kettle in the other, with a trivet hanging from one finger.

  He set everything on the coffee table, and Jono gestured for Eloise and the others to serve themselves first as guests.

  “Hospitality?” Madelyn asked.

  Jono shook his head. “It’s fine.”

  He wasn’t going to stand on ceremony, not with them. Madelyn nodded and set about making tea for herself and her mother while Grant did his own. Marek made a mug for himself and Sage, and there was just enough water left in the kettle for Jono’s.

  “You’ll need to refill the kettle for your tea,” Sage said, passing it back to Wade.

  “That’s what the microwave is for,” Wade said.

  Jono took a sip of his tea and refused to rise to the bait. “Go eat your Pop-Tarts.”

  “You don’t need to tell me twice.”

  “And put the kettle back on the hob.”

  Jono could hear Wade puttering about the kitchen as the rest of them enjoyed their tea during a quiet that wasn’t as awkward as he expected it to be. Eloise was of a generation where manners were paramount, and she wasn’t one to pry into hurts they were all feeling.

  “Where are you staying?” Jono asked after the tea was finished and small talk run through.

  “At a hotel on the Upper West Side. We were advised to stay clear of Midtown,” Grant said.

  “It stinks,” Wade said from his spot on the floor by the coffee table.

  “So we discovered when driving over from the airport.”

  “It’s getting better,” Jono said.

  Eloise looked at him, mouth curving in a soft smile. “One can only hope.”

  Jono thought about the promise Marek had made him all those years ago in London. How he’d never have found his pack if he hadn’t taken a chance and hoped it was the right choice at the time. He couldn’t have known then what was in store for him. He couldn’t have known what he’d find or what he’d become.

  He wouldn’t change it for anything though, and he’d keep waiting until Patrick came home.

  “Yeah,” Jono said softly, gaze straying to what remained of his pack, finding them looking back at him with love in their eyes. “One can hope.”

  32

  Patrick had forgotten what it felt like to be warm as he followed Hermes through the veil. “How much further?”

  “We’re almost there,” Hermes said.

  “I feel like you said that hours ago.”

  Hermes hummed in response, never slowing down as he strode through the fog that wanted to cling to them. “Ethan tried to cleave a new world out of the veil, and he failed. The damage wrought makes passing through it more difficult.”

  “Great.”

  He bit back everything else he wanted to say, knowing it wouldn’t make Hermes go any faster. Patrick knew the longer he spent past the veil, the more time would pass back on Earth. He also knew Hermes didn’t care. When Patrick had chosen to take Hermes’ hand, he’d known what he risked. That didn’t mean he wanted to lose months just because Hermes took the long way around.

  Patrick sighed and shifted the newborn in his arms, careful to support Macaria’s head. He winced at the throbbing pain in his left arm but didn’t let the wound there stop him from keeping her close.

  He looked down at the baby wrapped up in his leather jacket, tucked away from the chill of the veil. She stared up at him with gold-brown eyes full of personality and intelligence, her focus eerie in its intensity. He couldn’t look at her for long, cognizant of every choice that had resulted in the goddess taking up residence in his niece’s body.

  He wondered if his niece’s soul had ever had a chance to form or if Macaria’s godhead had pushed it out how she’d tried to push out Hannah’s. A baby was a blank slate, with no personality, and had stood no chance against a goddess who remembered who she was but had no body to call her own. Not until Hannah became pregnant against her will.

  Patrick hadn’t been around kids very often, babies even less, but he knew no baby was ever this quiet. Macaria wasn’t crying, wasn’t even squirming all that much, was just a silent presence in his arms with a godhead bleeding through her aura. Ozone lingered in the air around her, growing ever stronger as they traveled through the veil, and Patrick knew he needed to stop thinking of the baby as his niece, because she’d never had a chance to truly exist.

  This was Macaria’s body now and would be forever more.

  Protesting the unfairness of the situation wouldn’t change what had happened. Patrick could only move on fro
m the past, no matter how recent it was. Every step he took brought him closer to a freedom that had cost far more than he ever could have realized as a child.

  Walking through the veil felt like falling, with no sense of where the ground was. Patrick couldn’t see anything through the thick fog that surrounded them. Even Hermes faded from sight sometimes, the god wrapped up in gray nothingness before reappearing. The only constant was the faint glow of what was left of Hannah’s soul as it kept pace with them.

  Patrick couldn’t feel his twin in his soul, the same way he could no longer feel Jono through the soulbond. Whatever lingering connection that might have existed between his sister had been severed with Hannah’s death. All that remained was the memory of the child she’d been, the barest structure of a life lost. It had been enough, in the end, to require payment for passage to the afterlife.

  Hannah had been alive enough all these years to experience a horrifying, lingering slide into nonexistence, and Patrick knew he’d never forgive himself for that. But she was free now, and he hoped that could give her some peace, even if he’d never find his own over what was done.

  Patrick swallowed, dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He was about to channel Wade and ask how much longer they had left when the fog started to finally thin out. He could actually see the ground rather than just feel it, the soles of his combat boots sinking into black dirt. When the fog finally peeled away for good, he found himself walking beside the River Styx, the cold wind of the Underworld howling through the air.

  The full-body shiver that ran through him made his teeth clack together, nearly catching his tongue. Patrick blew out a breath, hunching his shoulders against the wind. The Underworld had always seemed inhospitable the few times he’d visited, and that hadn’t changed.

  Hermes led him to the edge of the river, and Patrick wasn’t surprised at all to see Charon waiting for them at the shore, the ferryman’s boat made out of bones ready for them to board. Patrick hesitated, brackish water lapping at the tips of his combat boots.

  Hermes, as if sensing Patrick’s unease, glanced over his shoulder and tilted his head in the direction of the boat. “You are allowed to ride. Payment was already made.”

  Patrick steeled himself and waded into the water, struggling a little as he tried to climb on board with a baby held in one arm. Hermes reached for her, as if to take Macaria from his arms, but Patrick only held her tighter.

  “I have her,” Patrick said, glaring at the god.

  Hermes could say payment was made all he liked, but until Patrick handed Macaria back to Persephone, he wasn’t letting her go. Hermes laughed at him, the sound ringing through the dead air, before vaulting onto the boat, making it rock wildly. Patrick scowled and waited until it settled enough in the water to get on board. It took some balancing, but he managed to do it without letting go of Macaria.

  Hannah’s soul floated over the water to settle in the space beside him on the cold wooden bench, never leaving his side. Charon pushed his pole against the bottom of the river, freeing the boat for the current to take. He steered them deeper into the River Styx, angling the prow downriver rather than across.

  The fog of the veil lingered against the water, less thick than it had been in the fringe they’d walked through. The Underworld was a cold, desolate place, and Patrick hunched over Macaria, trying to shield her from the wind. He clenched his teeth together when they started to chatter, wondering if he dared try to set a heat charm again on his leather jacket. The remnants of broken fae magic still lingered on the material, and he was loath to risk Macaria.

  So Patrick remained cold on the long ride down the River Styx, staring into the gloom that was ever present in the Underworld. He kept his eyes on the water, wary of the things that swam below the surface, shadows that followed the boat for miles and miles.

  The River Styx grew wider as Charon steered them to their final destination. Eventually, Patrick couldn’t even see the shore, the fog obscuring it. Macaria shifted in her makeshift swaddle, and Patrick tugged aside the collar some to get eyes on her. She blinked owlishly up at him, her thatch of strawberry blond hair the only color around it seemed like.

  “Almost there,” Patrick said tiredly.

  He couldn’t begin to know how long the boat ride was, but the fog began to thin at some point, rolling away from a massive cave that looked as if it was capable of swallowing the River Styx whole. Charon directed his boat toward that darkness, the light in the skull on the prow illuminating their way into the vast tunnel.

  The only sound in the dark was Patrick’s breathing and the splash of water against the hull of the boat. Charon knew the way, though, and guided the boat with a sureness that came from an eternity of ferrying souls to the Underworld.

  A speck of light bloomed in the distance, growing larger and brighter as they drifted toward it. Patrick realized too late it was hellfire, burning in an arc against the end of the tunnel that opened up into a huge cavern. The heat of it was almost scorching after being so cold for so long, driving feeling back into the tips of his fingers.

  Patrick straightened up once he caught sight of the welcoming committee standing on a stone ledge the River Styx lapped against. Charon poled the boat closer until the bones that made up its hull brushed against stone. Hermes stood and leaped easily to dry land. Patrick couldn’t do the same, not with a baby in his arms, but he wasn’t about to ask for help.

  He managed to stand and get out of the boat without falling on his ass, but it was a near thing. Finally standing on solid ground, Patrick stared at where Persephone and Hades stood on the shores of their kingdom, watching him with a hunger in their eyes that was all for the infant he carried.

  What did you look like before? Patrick wondered to himself as he glanced down at Macaria. Who will you be after this when you find your voice again?

  He had so many questions that he knew would never be answered, simply because Patrick knew better than to go prying into other people’s traumas, even when they were so intricately twined with his own. Macaria didn’t owe him that, even though she was payment in full of the soul debt he owed Persephone.

  “One weapon, as you requested,” Hermes said with an overindulgent bow to the rulers of the Underworld.

  “Oh, fuck you,” Patrick muttered.

  Hermes flashed him a smile before stepping aside, allowing Patrick to face Persephone and the end of everything he’d lived for since she’d taken him off that spellwork in Salem all those years ago.

  “I brought your daughter back,” Patrick said into the cold and the quiet that surrounded them. “I want my soul debt cleared. Tell me it’s done. That I’ve paid up and you don’t own me anymore.”

  He couldn’t quite keep the desperation out of his voice and was too tired to really try. The gods would do what they liked, they always had, but he’d played fast and loose with their rules and finally finished what had been asked of him. Persephone owed him his freedom, and Patrick wasn’t leaving the Underworld this time without it.

  Persephone approached on quiet feet, her gown more traditionally Greek in style than anything she’d worn as of late. Patrick tightened his grip on the baby, not willing to give her up without assurances. Macaria still didn’t make a sound, though she wriggled more than she had on the long journey through the veil to this moment. Persephone’s gaze dropped to the infant, the love in her eyes impossible to miss.

  “You kept your end of the bargain. The terms were met. Your soul debt has been paid,” Persephone said.

  She stepped closer, reaching not for her daughter like he thought she would but for Patrick. Her hands were warm when they framed his face, tilting his head so she could look him in the eye. Between one blink and the next, her godhead bled through, mixing with Macaria’s, until Patrick had to squint to meet her gaze. When he sucked in a breath, all he could smell was spring.

  Warmth coursed through his body, the taste of magic on his tongue. The stinging ache in his left arm disappeared, the wound t
here healed by her touch. All the cuts and scrapes and bruises he’d accumulated in the battle washed away as if they had never been.

  “I will remember what your family took from me, and I will remember how you returned it,” Persephone said. “I will remember you.”

  “Please don’t,” Patrick told her.

  She lifted a hand to smooth back his hair, and the touch sent fire lancing through his body. He tried to jerk away but couldn’t, standing rigid before her. When Persephone’s magic finally fled his body, he felt hollowed out and paper-thin, standing there before the goddess who had dictated the steps of his life for so long.

  Persephone pulled his head down so she could brush a kiss over his forehead, the touch soft and almost forgiving in a way, when he didn’t think he deserved it. “Be free.”

  A sound rang in his head, the echo of it making his chest hurt. The scars there from the wound she’d closed up when he was a child ached in a way they hadn’t in years, as if all the broken nerve endings were linking to his brain one last time. The heat of the pain made him bite his tongue until it almost bled.

  Then it was gone, and Patrick would be lying if he said he felt different, because he didn’t. Nothing had changed except his perception, and maybe, finally, that could be enough.

  “I’ll take my daughter back,” Persephone said.

  Her arms slid around his, curving around the infant and pulling her out of the leather jacket she was swaddled in. Macaria looked at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, one tiny hand reaching for her mother. Persephone smiled down at her, all the love she was capable of giving there in her face for everyone to see. She let Macaria snag her finger, leaning down to press a kiss to that tiny fist.

  “I’ve missed you so, κόρη.”

  Persephone turned away from him, lifting her head to stare at her husband, who hadn’t taken his eyes off them. Hades didn’t approach, allowing Persephone to come to him, and Patrick wondered how many years it would take for the goddess to forgive her husband. He wondered if spring would be a year-round season in some other world, some other place, with Hades having to abide in the chill of winter and always be on the outside looking in.