“I still think this is a shit idea,” Jono said from the front passenger seat of the Mustang.
“I can think of ten off the top of my head that were worse,” Patrick replied as he turned off Madison Avenue. In the backseat, Wade snorted. The familiar crunch of snacks being eaten followed the sound.
Jono sighed. “No wonder why your old captain wanted to murder you half the time.”
“He did not. It was more like a quarter of the time.”
“Murder is still murder, Pat.”
“That’s debatable. What isn’t is your job tonight.”
“I’ll keep an eye on the kid. Just make sure Sage keeps her eyes on you.”
“Not a kid,” Wade muttered from the back seat.
Patrick ignored him. “You can tell her yourself if you want when we get to her place.”
“I already did when I rang her earlier,” Jono said.
Patrick made a face as he braked to a stop in front of the old Art Deco building Marek and the others called home, putting on his hazard lights. Lights shone through most of the windows, signaling the Tempest pack had holed up together for the night on Emma’s orders. Jono and Wade would be staying with them until Patrick returned because if shit went down, Jono would need a car and Wade would need to be protected. Emma’s pack was more than willing to fight for him, no matter what Estelle and Youssef had ordered.
That way led problems, but everyone had agreed they’d deal with it only when directly confronted by the god pack. Emma was adamant she wouldn’t be banning Sage from her home even if that technically meant she was letting Sage into the Tempest pack’s territory. Since Jono hadn’t stayed long enough to hash out territory passage, they were all operating under the general understanding that they could pass through without any issues.
Patrick knew that wouldn’t last for long, but so long as it lasted beyond this case, they’d be fine.
The front door opened right as Jono got out of the Mustang. Sage came out wearing dark skinny jeans and a fitted black T-shirt. Rather than sneakers, she had on ballet flats, which Patrick figured would be easier to lose if she had to shift to her weretiger form. Her necklace with its turquoise artifact hung from her neck, the only bit of color in her entire outfit.
Marek followed her out of the building while Emma and Leon chose to lounge by the front door. Patrick hit the button to roll down the window. “You’re staying put, Marek.”
Marek rolled his eyes. “I know. I just came down to tell you that I have a bad feeling about tonight.”
“Did you have a vision?”
Marek rested his arm on the roof of the car and stared at Patrick through the open window. Behind him, Wade was being ushered up the stairs by Jono and let in by Leon.
“Not so much a vision as a gut feeling,” Marek said slowly. “The Norns still can’t see the future, so whatever is going on, you’re smack in the middle of it.”
“That’s not new.”
“Yeah, well, you have my fiancée watching your back, so don’t do anything stupid.”
Patrick turned to look at Sage’s left hand but didn’t see a ring. “That is new. Congratulations.”
“Marriage is one of the oldest forms of contracts. It’s another layer of protection the god pack will have a difficult time breaking,” Sage explained. “And it’s not new. We’ve been talking about it for a while now. Sunday changed everything.”
“I’m shutting down Tiffany’s for Sage to pick out a ring the second this case is over. Don’t ruin my plans, Patrick,” Marek said.
“Now you’re just asking for shit to go down,” Patrick said. “Go feed Wade. He needs another meal.”
“We ordered pizza,” Emma said from the doorway.
Marek pushed away from the car, and Jono took his place, leaning down to tug Patrick into a quick kiss. “Keep your mobile on you.”
“Here’s hoping I won’t need to call in the cavalry,” Patrick said.
“I’d be the first one there.” Jono let out a heavy breath. “Next time you want to piss off a nutter, I’m going with you.”
“I’m kind of hoping there won’t be a next time.”
“You’re helping Lucien take over the Manhattan Night Court. There will be a next time.”
Patrick switched off the hazard lights and lowered the emergency brake. “Don’t remind me.”
“Stay alive,” Jono said in lieu of goodbye.
“Admit it. You’ve been talking to Gerard.”
Jono smirked at the mention of Gerard Breckenridge, Patrick’s old team captain of the Hellraisers. “What’s it you Yanks always say? I plead the Fifth.”
Jono smacked the top of the roof before stepping up onto the sidewalk. Patrick took his foot off the brake and hit the gas, driving down the block to take a left on Fifth Avenue.
“Where are we meeting Einar?” Sage asked.
“At the club,” Patrick replied.
After what happened Monday with the god pack, Patrick had called Lucien to give him a heads-up on what Patrick had planned. Getting agency approval to go forward first meant Lucien couldn’t really tell Patrick no. Patrick’s contract with the SOA superseded his promise to Lucien. It didn’t quite cancel things out and never would, but it was a roadblock Lucien had to work around.
Sage had been the one to come up with that tiny bit of wiggle room. Patrick could honestly say having a lawyer in his corner was actually working out well for once.
Too bad she couldn’t get the DEA off his back.
His phone rang, a number with a Washington, DC, area code flashing across the screen. Patrick answered it, thinking it was from the legal department at the SOA. He was wrong.
“Special Agent Patrick Collins. Line and location are not secure,” he said, answering the phone and resorting to driving one-handed as he did so.
“I hear your agency has filed documents under seal and got a warrant,” Quetzalcoatl said in greeting.
“How the hell did you find that out?” Patrick demanded.
“That doesn’t matter. I told you the case was mine. Do not enter Tremaine’s territory.”
“I have it on good authority Tremaine is killing werecreatures. I’m not leaving them there to die.”
“He’s sacrificing them. There’s a difference.”
Patrick hunched his shoulders, feeling the scar tissue stretch and pull on his chest. “Trust me, I know.”
“You don’t know what is waiting for you in that club, Patrick. You cannot face death alone.”
“If you’re talking about your brother, I’ll take my chances.”
“He is protecting death because he thinks he loves her. We have destroyed the world for less.”
“World is still turning, Quetz.”
“My name is Quetzalcoatl.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Patrick said with a shrug the immortal couldn’t see. “Seems a lot of other people have.”
Immortality was a lonely existence, one Patrick would never want. The gods played at being mortal because they had no other choice in a world no longer big enough for all of them. Dwindling prayers and worship could grant them only so much power in the face of a handful of dominant religions that had no use for their stories.
Patrick wondered how the Dominion Sect planned to contain death herself. He’d say it was impossible, but he’d seen what had been done to his twin sister with his own eyes. Hannah carried a stolen godhead when she shouldn’t have been able to, what was left of her kept alive by prayers, the power residing in her soul siphoned off by Ethan and his followers.
“Do not serve the warrant,” Quetzalcoatl told him in a low voice filled with power that made Patrick’s teeth ache.
He shook it off. “You aren’t the god who owns my soul debt, and Hermes gave me a message, remember? If you want death separated from your brother, I’m going to have to piss off some gods first. Dragging Tezcatlipoca’s distributor into the light seems a good place to start. If doing so allows me to save some werecreatures, so much the bet
ter.”
Patrick ended the call before Quetzalcoatl could respond. Sage looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Is that wise?”
“Pissing off gods?” Patrick lifted his hips to shove his phone back into his pocket. “Probably not, but I do it all the time. It’s bad for my health, but you do what you gotta do to get the job done.”
Sage blinked at him slowly before saying, “You make a good alpha.”
“I’m not an alpha anything.”
“You’re co-leading this pack. That technically makes you one.”
“I don’t know anything about leading a pack. Just ask Jono.”
“He does well in a pinch.”
Patrick braked for a red light, scratching idly at the nicotine patch on the underside of his arm. Jono wasn’t there to smack his hand away. “Are you saying that because he claimed you or because you mean it?”
Sage didn’t answer for two more blocks. When she finally spoke, her voice was thoughtful. “Jono has never liked how Estelle and Youssef have overseen the packs in New York City. I thought, in the beginning, it was because he was angry they wouldn’t take him in when he first moved here. I know now it’s because he’s a better man than they are. He cares.”
“Like a goddamn mother hen,” Patrick muttered.
Sage nodded. “Yes. You need that in an alpha. What’s more, you need that in a god pack. We don’t have it here. Not yet.”
The not yet should’ve worried Patrick, but he was familiar with the way war crept up on people. It didn’t always announce itself with a bullet. If he’d been in Estelle and Youssef’s place, he’d have banned Jono from his territory the second the Brit touched down on American soil. They’d let the seeds of a rebellion fester in their territory for years and only had themselves to blame when it bloomed.
“I don’t know what Jono has planned, but I’ll back him,” Patrick said slowly.
“That is what pack does,” Sage told him with a faint smile. “That is what a team does, if you will.”
“You aren’t my Hellraisers.”
“Maybe not, but we’ll be enough.” Considering what they were heading into, Patrick hoped she meant every last word. Sage cleared her throat. “So how are we doing this? You have a plan that’s more than serving the warrant?”
“Yeah. Don’t die.”
“That’s your plan?”
“It’s a good plan.” Sage stared at him with an unimpressed look on her face. “What? It is.”
“Unbelievable.”
The drive into SoHo took about twenty minutes, give or take an aggressive taxi cab or two. Patrick pulled up in front of the Crimson Diamond and unbuckled his seat belt. Before he even got his hand on the door handle, a stupidly young vampire he didn’t know dropped down next to his Mustang on the street, showing off jagged fangs.
Patrick hit the window button to lower it half an inch. “Don’t get blood on my car.”
“I’m a messy eater,” the vampire hissed.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
The hand that reached around the vampire’s throat and sank sharp nails that could have doubled for talons into pale white skin was a blur until it wasn’t. The fingers sank in to the second knuckle before ripping free, bringing half the vampire’s throat with it. Thick, dark blood splattered against the glass, and Patrick hastily raised the window.
“I said don’t get blood on my car,” he yelled.
The vampire clutched at his ruined throat, mouth working soundlessly in shock now that his airway was pretty much gone. Then he was thrown farther down the street with enough force to break a few bones. Patrick could only hope he got hit by a taxi.
Patrick shoved the car door open and got out, glaring at Einar. “You’re paying for the detailing on my car.”
“The damage to your car is not our problem.” Einar stared down his nose at Patrick, mouth curling in distaste. “You’re late.”
“Bullshit. We agreed to meet up an hour after sunset. We’re right on time.”
Sage got out of the car and headed for the sidewalk. Patrick locked the car with a push of a button and followed after her. Einar beat him to the guarded entrance of the club, a blur of motion in the dark Patrick’s eyes couldn’t track.
This time, the door was being manned by half a dozen vampires instead of a single human servant. The show of force told Patrick more than anything else they’d struck a nerve the other night when Lucien had waltzed in like he owned the place.
Sage stuck by his side as they approached the door. He pulled the search warrant out of the pocket of his leather jacket and opened it so the Manhattan Night Court vampires could see the SOA seal and judge’s signature. He hooked his thumb around the chain his badge hung from and lifted it off his chest so the vampires couldn’t miss it.
“Special Agent Patrick Collins of the Supernatural Operations Agency here with a nice official search warrant. Step aside,” Patrick said.
The vampires didn’t move, but the door did open behind them.
“Good evening, Special Agent Collins,” a deep voice said from the entranceway. “I’m Alistair Shepard, counsel for Tremaine. I’d like to see your warrant.”
The attorney in question was older than Patrick by at least a decade, if not more. Hair going gray at the temples, Rolex on left wrist, and a suit that not even Patrick’s hazard pay could afford, Alistair Shepard was a tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp brown eyes and a disdainful smile.
Patrick shrugged and passed over the warrant. Alistair made a show of reading through the legalese before handing it back.
“Your warrant was achieved under false parameters. My client harbors no werecreatures here,” Alistair said.
Patrick kept his shields locked down tight, hoping none of the vampires could sense his unease. That statement didn’t bode well to any captive’s survival.
“So you say, but perhaps his business partner does,” Sage said calmly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Tremaine wouldn’t be the first vampire to allow storage of other people’s property within his territory.”
“Tremaine is a master vampire who needs no business partner.”
Patrick waved aside Alistair’s statement. “I have the right to search the premises, so how about you get out of my way?”
Alistair’s cold eyes flicked to where Einar stood, a silent, looming threat currently flipping a switchblade around the fingers of his left hand. “The federal government may pass. That one has no right to enter.”
Einar smiled, icy blue eyes never blinking in his pale, pale face. “Tremaine is owned by Lucien. I am here as proxy for our master. A piece of paper can’t bar our master’s blood rights.”
“There’s precedent law for that,” Sage added.
“Tremaine has been his own master for centuries. The person you represent has no place here,” Alistair argued.
“Nice thing about being a federal agent with a warrant is that I get a say on who gets access to search. Einar is coming with me,” Patrick said. “Now get the fuck out of my way.”
Alistair stared them down for a couple more seconds before finally stepping aside. The vampires guarding the door didn’t look happy, but no one tried to gut them on the way inside. Strangely enough, Alistair didn’t follow them into the club. Patrick chalked that up to deniability.
The hostess stand was empty, but the neon No Holy Items sign burned bright in the flower wall. Past the heaviness of the threshold, Patrick became aware that the club was too silent.
“It’s empty,” Sage confirmed when he glanced at her.
The little voice in the back of Patrick’s mind was yelling trap, trap, trap over and over. The warning was one he didn’t have the luxury of listening to, not if there was a chance any of the people Estelle and Youssef had given up were still alive.
Recognition cut through Patrick’s shields and magic with enough power behind the warning to make his stomach roil.
“It is customary to bring an offering when you meet with me,” an a
ccented voice called from deeper in the club.
Patrick’s hand strayed toward the hilt of his dagger, fingers brushing over the cool metal. He didn’t draw it, but knowing it was there settled his nerves a little. Gesturing for the others to follow, Patrick led them into the heart of the club, eyes skimming over the mostly empty space and all the corners the enemy could hide.
The mezzanine was empty; the dance floor was not. A golden circle had been drawn on the floor with magic, the same one from Saturday night, with its ancient designs that wouldn’t look out of place on a stone temple. No barriers were raised, but that could change in an instant. Placed in the center of the circle was a seat that was more throne, less chair, and claimed by a god.
Tezcatlipoca seemed to favor linen suits that wouldn’t look out of place in the South Side of Miami. The immortal was shirtless beneath his pristine white suit jacket, but his upper torso was hidden by a shining chest piece made out of burnished gold plate that hung from his neck and shoulders. Tezcatlipoca’s long, straight black hair fell loose to his waist, though his head was hidden beneath a gold headdress adorned with obsidian and jade. Colored heron feathers a meter long extended from the headdress in a fan that haloed his head.
A black line edged in yellow was painted across his cheekbones and nose, the color rising almost to his eyes. What was most striking, if not downright chilling, about his appearance wasn’t the headdress but his right foot. While Tezcatlipoca’s bare left foot was flesh and bone, the right was carved from polished obsidian, shiny as a mirror.
Surrounding the Aztec god were humans that weren’t servants, some with magic, some without. Patrick picked out the gang members carrying guns and those with magic burning at their fingertips. Interspaced between them were Manhattan Night Court vampires, their stillness and lack of breath eerie in the dim light of the club.
Seated to Tezcatlipoca’s left was a black jaguar, the kind that had chased Wade into the subway Saturday night. Standing to Tezcatlipoca’s right was Tremaine, who looked far too pleased with himself.
“Think he left one master for another?” Patrick mused.
“The rat has never been capable of fending for himself. Lucien has only been thinking about how best to gift a true death to Tremaine since he fled the Ottoman Empire’s old borders and left his brothers and sisters to die beneath the teeth of religion,” Einar said.
All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2) Page 16