All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2)

by Hailey Turner

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Carmen said with a disdainful sniff. “It’s Jersey.”

  Half a summer spent living in here and Patrick was well aware of the visceral disdain the city had for New Jersey, and vice versa. Rivalries aside, he still wasn’t getting any answers.

  “You want territory? Buy a fucking skyscraper. Stake your claim here in Ginnungagap for all I care. You don’t need my help to gain territory. You never have,” Patrick said.

  Lucien moved before Patrick was even aware of the vampire coming at him, that preternatural speed impossible for the human eye to track. Patrick was shoved back hard enough by Jono he almost fell, and only just managed to keep his footing. He jerked his head up at the loud snarl that ripped through the air, staring in disbelief at where Jono had Lucien by the throat and the vampire had a 9mm Sig Saur shoved against Jono’s chest, right over his heart.

  “Don’t you fucking dare pull that trigger,” Patrick growled.

  He could see Jono’s fingers had shifted, claws digging into Lucien’s pale skin deep enough to make him bleed thick, fat drops of sluggish red-black blood. Lucien didn’t seem to care, since his other hand was busy trying to shove a knife through Jono’s wrist, the gun never wavering.

  “You don’t get it, wolf,” Lucien said. “Patrick owes the gods, but he owes me as well.”

  “The way I hear it, you owe him,” Jono said in a low, vicious voice. “Something about a promise, yeah? Don’t fucking murder him, right? Isn’t that what you promised Ashanti?”

  “Keep my mother’s name out of your mouth, or it will be the last name you ever speak.”

  “Patrick doesn’t owe you anything. You can fuck right off with your demands.”

  “Jono, let him go,” Patrick ordered. “Both of you cut this shit out.”

  Lucien’s eyes slid his way, dismissing the threat Jono presented in the way only a nearly thousand-year-old master vampire could. “I’m going to take over the Manhattan Night Court, and you’re going to help me.”

  If he didn’t have a dead werecreature lying in the morgue, probably killed by vampires, Patrick would’ve told Lucien to go fuck himself. Instead, he swallowed his misgivings and ran full tilt into another bargain he knew would ruin his life.

  “Yeah. Fine. I’ll do it just to fucking spite you. Now back the hell off, Lucien.”

  Lucien thumbed the safety on his gun and raised an eyebrow expectantly at Jono. It was a tense few seconds before they both removed their hands from each other in a quick motion. They each took several steps back, blood spattering on the floor from the claw marks in Lucien’s throat and the rapidly closing cut in Jono’s right wrist.

  “What the ever bloody fuck?” Jono demanded, stalking over to Patrick. “You don’t need to help this arsehole.”

  “His word is binding, and it has been witnessed,” Lucien said, the smirk on his face telling Patrick this was exactly what he’d wanted to happen.

  “For this territory fight only,” Patrick stressed. “That’s what you asked for, and that’s all you’re getting.”

  The weight in his soul got heavier, Ginnungagap’s presence all around them making it impossible to breathe for a second or two. Then it was gone, but the promise he’d given voice to remained a bitter, living thing he would have to see through to the end.

  “You,” Jono said, leaning down to growl the words directly into Patrick’s ear, “are utter shit at taking care of yourself.”

  “You’re fine, Jono. You didn’t promise anything.”

  “We’re a fucking pack, Patrick. What you promise commits both of us. So yeah, mate. It’s my problem now, too.”

  “Not for this. You are not tied to this.”

  He spoke the words like a promise, refusing to drag Jono into this mess through an oath that couldn’t be broken. One of them needed to be free and clear. Patrick turned his head to the side, unable to meet Jono’s gaze, hating that he’d put them both in this position. As with everything else in his life when the shit hit the fan, Patrick barreled forward because he had to.

  “Why the Manhattan Night Court, Lucien? Why not any of the others?” he asked.

  “Because it is led by a rat who should know better than to bite the hand that fed it for three hundred years,” Lucien said scornfully.

  It took Patrick a couple of seconds to work through what Lucien meant. When he understood the implications, he wished he hadn’t promised a damn thing. Only one of the master vampires who called the five boroughs home was old enough for that age to fit.

  “You’re going after Tremaine.”

  The master vampire who had laid claim to New York City before it even was a city. A vampire who had apparently been born by Lucien’s fangs and blood, two degrees removed from Ashanti. One who had left Lucien who knew when and how, because Patrick knew the only way to leave Lucien’s Night Court was to die a true death.

  Patrick wondered what had happened to make Tremaine run, and why Lucien had let that leash stretch out for so long.

  “Tremaine knows we are here and that we are not leaving. He allied himself with the Omacatl Cartel years ago and is seeking to point the police away from that cartel’s drug dealing and get them to focus on our businesses, both legal and not,” Carmen said.

  “Are they the ones dealing shine?” Jono asked angrily.

  “Yes, along with other drugs. Not to mention a thriving human-trafficking and prostitution ring.”

  “So you’re what? Going for a hostile takeover? Kill off the bastard and claim everything he owns?”

  Lucien pulled out a lighter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He lit one up, the smell of nicotine making Patrick’s nose twitch. “I have no interest in keeping what businesses Tremaine thinks he owns. My Anahuac Cartel will fill the void Tremaine’s death will create.”

  “Going the scorched-earth route, I take it? Mundane humans don’t like it when the preternatural world has turf wars on their doorstep,” Patrick said.

  “Then you better hope the fighting never leaves the tunnels.” Lucien blew smoke at Patrick, the cloud making him crave a cigarette. “There is a meeting between the five master vampires tomorrow night at Tremaine’s Crimson Diamond club. They didn’t invite me. We will be rectifying that oversight.”

  Before Patrick could answer, the threshold wrapped around Ginnungagap heaved in warning, making his stomach swoop in an uncomfortable way. Lucien moved before Patrick could get his bearings, becoming a streak of motion he was hard-pressed to track.

  Naheed spun around, gun now in hand and aimed at the side entrance to the alleyway. Carmen stayed where she was to act as backup if needed. Patrick swore and ran after Lucien, his ears ringing from the sound of the door slamming open. He conjured up a mageglobe, filling it with a barrage spell as Jono took point, exiting Ginnungagap seconds before Patrick.

  Jono skidded to a stop once outside and Patrick nearly ran into him. Magic burning between his fingers, Patrick got eyes on their vehicles and swore.

  “Motherfucking shit,” he said, taking in the claw marks that now adorned both cars.

  No normal animal could shred metal. Paint, yes, but whatever creature had raked their claws over doors, hoods, and trunks had ripped into the body of the cars themselves, cutting through Patrick’s defensive wards without him sensing it. Metal was butterflied open, the paint peeled around the damage. Sitting on top of each car was a tiny Santa Muerte idol, the white figurines spattered in red.

  Patrick really hoped the red color was paint, but he knew he was never that lucky.

  In the sunlight, Lucien looked washed-out and strange, pale skin starting to flush from heat that didn’t burn him as he circled the Aston Martin and the Mustang, black eyes memorizing the damage. Patrick shifted the magic in his mageglobe, silently recasting it into a look-away ward. He lobbed the mageglobe toward the mouth of the alley to keep any curious bystanders at bay.

  “Smells like immortals,” Jono said, nostrils flaring.

  Patrick stared at
the Santa Muerte idol sitting on top of his car and wished he could burn it. Fire could cleanse almost anything, but it couldn’t cleanse the debts he owed.

  Lucien circled back around and came to a stop in front of Patrick, his black eyes boring into Patrick’s green. “You have death hunting you.”

  “Yeah,” Patrick said, stomach twisting. “That’s nothing new.”

  Seriously, fuck his life.

  5

  Jono wanted to slam open their apartment door but knew if he did so, the knob would go through the wall and there was a very real chance the door might come off its hinges. Still, he thought about it.

  “You’re in a mood,” Patrick said from right behind him.

  “Yeah, mate. I’m in a fucking mood,” Jono snapped as he stalked into the kitchen.

  The front door shut with a quiet click. While he couldn’t feel the threshold snap into place, Jono could sense the aftereffects of it sealing the apartment. The hint of electric ozone that had lingered on the Mustang during the drive home and on themselves abruptly faded away.

  Jono shook his head as he opened up the refrigerator and took out a bottle of stout. He popped the screw cap off with ease and tossed the bent bit of metal in the bin. He took a long drink of the Guinness, swallowing half the beer, careful to not break the bottle.

  Patrick followed him into the kitchen, incapable of running away from a fight or an argument. That stubbornness was what drew Jono to the other man, amongst other traits, but sometimes he wished Patrick would think before acting.

  “I owed him,” Patrick said after a moment. “You don’t.”

  Jono slammed the beer bottle down on the counter hard enough to crack it. Jono had to force his fingers off it rather than drive them through the glass.

  “You owe enough.”

  Patrick’s expressive mouth thinned out, eyes narrowing, despite the shadow of bruises still lingering on the delicate skin in that area. “This isn’t your problem. Lucien isn’t—”

  “Did I not,” Jono interrupted icily, trying to choke back his anger and absolutely failing, “tell you earlier we’re a fucking pack?”

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  “No, I don’t think you bloody do!”

  “I didn’t want you to owe Lucien anything, Jono. How is that a bad thing?”

  “The only thing I’ll ever owe that blood-sucking bastard is an early grave. His, specifically.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “That attitude is exactly why I didn’t want you making any deals with him.”

  “You’re being a right fucking arsehole about this, you know that?”

  “Congratulations,” Patrick bit out. “You’ve met me.”

  Jono threw his arms into the air. “You didn’t even fight his demands. You just accepted without asking, without making better terms. I know you, Pat. I know the word games you play, and you didn’t bother playing them with Lucien.”

  “Because I owe him.”

  “Why?” Jono took a step forward. “What do you think you did to merit being at Lucien’s mercy for even a second?”

  “I killed his mother.”

  The words dropped between them like an anvil, heavy and bitter and full of a self-loathing Jono was all too familiar with when it came to Patrick. Jono stared at him, seeing the way his hands were clenched into fists and the way he was holding his breath, air locked in his lungs.

  “Come again?” Jono said, his anger dying beneath the twist of old grief he could smell coming off Patrick.

  Patrick refused to look Jono in the eye. “Ashanti is dead. She’s dead because of me, Jono.”

  “Why?”

  “She was the mother of all vampires and a goddess in her own right. Ashanti was the immortal who delivered the dagger to me at the end of the Thirty-Day War, but it brought her within the bounds of Ethan’s sacrificial spell. She died because of it, and I couldn’t save her. I know there’s no comfort to be found in missing the dead, only damaged judgment, but that doesn’t change the fact it’s my fault she’s gone.”

  Jono could smell the truth in his words, but that still didn’t explain why it smelled like Patrick was in mourning over a vampire. Shaking his head, Jono closed the distance between them and curled a hand over Patrick’s chin, tipping his head up. Patrick reluctantly met his gaze, a grimace tugging at his mouth.

  “You don’t mourn the monsters of the world,” Jono said quietly. “What was she to you?”

  He thought Patrick would lie to him, maybe ignore the question and shift the conversation to something less personal. Jono had stumbled into more than one of Patrick’s walls since moving in together, and he’d respected the memories that built them. But Jono couldn’t do that here, not when Patrick’s familiarity of working alone had fucked them both over in a way Jono refused to accept.

  “A teacher,” Patrick finally said, lips barely moving, but Jono heard him anyway.

  The riot of emotions Jono got half a lungful of before Patrick locked his personal shields down tight made his fingers loosen on Patrick’s chin. Jono let his anger die away completely, unwilling to hold on to it in the face of Patrick’s old trauma.

  “She must’ve been brilliant,” Jono said, not quite believing he was singing a vampire’s praises.

  Patrick stepped back, out of reach. “The best. And it’s my fault she no longer walks the world. That’s why I promised Lucien my help. Ashanti would still be alive if it weren’t for me and my family.”

  Jono sighed. “Should’ve rung Sage and told her to skip that meeting and do the bargaining for you.”

  “I can bargain just fine.” Jono could not believe those words had come out of Patrick’s mouth and stared at him. Patrick rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that look.”

  “I’m trying to decide if I’ve ever met a bloke as thick as you when it comes to asking for help.”

  “Jono—”

  “No, hear me out. I’m still bloody pissed you made that deal. You didn’t ask me what I thought and I was standing right there. That’s not how pack works, and if we want to make it work, you need to stop acting like you’re in this alone. Because you aren’t. Not anymore.”

  Patrick’s jaw worked for a moment before he took a deep breath and let it out on a heavy exhale. “I’m not used to having a partner.”

  Jono reached out and grabbed Patrick’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know. I’m not asking you to change your habits with all your cases, just the ones that involve me.”

  Before Patrick could answer, Jono’s mobile rang, the Psycho ring tone echoing from his back pocket. He fished it out, scowling down at Youssef’s name on the screen.

  “Ignore it?”

  “They’ll just keep ringing.” Jono swiped his thumb over the green icon to answer. “Yeah?”

  “We need to discuss you overstepping your place, Jonothon,” Youssef said coldly. “The morgue informed us you signed off on the body when we called to schedule a viewing appointment. You had no right to work with the PCB.”

  Jono kept his heartbeat steady from long practice, making sure no one on the other side of the line could get a read on him. “Is that so?”

  “You are to submit yourself to our authority immediately. Any delay would not be advisable. You know where to find us.”

  Youssef ended the call, and Jono pulled his mobile away from his ear with a scowl. “The god pack alphas want to see me.”

  “About what?” Patrick asked.

  “Andre. Seems they called the morgue and got told their services were no longer needed.”

  Patrick frowned, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “If they think they can threaten you about the case, I should be there to tell them to mind their own fucking business.”

  “Doubt they’d agree to let you through the door.”

  “I have a badge for a reason. Let’s go.”

  While it was like pulling teeth to get Patrick to acknowledge they were a pack in a crisis and not go off on his own, he apparently had no problem remembering in order to
piss off the god pack. Jono would be annoyed about that later, after they’d dealt with the current problem. At the moment, he was glad for the solidarity.

  Back out the flat they went, returning to the car, the damage from unknown claw marks hidden from sight by Patrick’s magic. Jono got behind the wheel since he knew where the god pack lived and Patrick didn’t. The drive there was filled with leftover tension from their argument. Jono didn’t know how to break it before they got within hearing range of the god pack’s territory in the Upper Manhattan neighborhood of Hamilton Heights.

  Jono hadn’t been back this way since after the mess in Central Park, when the god pack had demanded answers from him while Patrick was in DC, packing up his life there. Jono hadn’t been forthcoming at all at the time; neither Estelle nor Youssef had appreciated his silence.

  “Looks almost like suburbia,” Patrick said as Jono drove down a street filled on either side with spacious apartment buildings or brownstones. “Do they enjoy their perfect credit scores out here?”

  Jono snorted. “God packs have shit credit. Why do you think they live off tithes?”

  “So no white picket fence, is what you’re saying?”

  “No.”

  Jono circled a block with a familiar stretch of brownstones and spent five minutes looking for a parking spot until Patrick reminded him about the government plates. He parked in the red zone in front of a fire hydrant and locked the door when they got out.

  “They own the homes on this block,” Jono said as they walked up the street. “House deeds are passed down through the pack alphas. It’s the same way it’s done in London. Most people won’t rent to god pack werecreatures, so god packs had to carve out their own territory in legal ways.”

  “Let’s go say hello,” Patrick said.

  The muggy midday heat beat down on their shoulders as Jono led the way to the brownstone Estelle and Youssef called home. In the center of the block, the outside façade was indistinguishable from its neighbors, but the brownstone wasn’t a home. What mundane humans couldn’t scent was the dread that seemed to permeate the area, carried there by the packs who came looking for help and only left with despair.