Holding Patrick against his chest, Jono tiredly leaned his head back against the wall as Patrick jacked himself off with painful whimpers, the scent of sick and semen heavy in the bathroom. Patrick still had his jeans on, though they were shoved down past his hips once more, but at least this time the only hand touching him was his own.
Jono desperately called out to the god. Help me, Fenrir. I don’t want to hurt him.
The god’s presence filled his mind and body, skin itching with the need to shift. Jono resisted, and Fenrir let him. Instead, warmth filled his chest, seeping deeper past his bones to his soul itself. Jono blinked, feeling as if he was being constricted. He didn’t know what Fenrir had done until Patrick shuddered through a painful orgasm, head turned toward him and eyes finally cracking open a sliver before closing again.
“Where’d you go?” Patrick asked dazedly.
Jono shifted Patrick in his arms, keeping his breathing steady. “Nowhere.”
If Patrick could look at him without being in pain, Jono assumed his soul must have been hidden from sight. Whatever aura Patrick had seen pouring out of Jono’s body, he wasn’t seeing it now.
That didn’t stop shine from wreaking havoc on Patrick.
Listening to Patrick beg to be fucked made Jono furious even as he was helpless to do anything about it. In between his pleading, Patrick’s magic would burst out in small, uncontrollable eruptions that he desperately tried to reabsorb. The threshold around the apartment hummed in Jono’s ears after each release, getting shriller and shriller. After the fourth miniature explosion that shattered the mirror and broke the bathroom door off its hinges and nearly sent it crashing down on top of them, Jono hauled Patrick to his feet.
“You need to stop,” Jono pleaded. “Patrick, please.”
“Can’t,” Patrick muttered, reeling in his arms, bare feet sliding against the floor. Jono had gotten rid of both their shoes earlier after a near miss of the toilet when Patrick got sick. “I can’t. Not enough room in me. Can’t think.”
“Then pour it through me. I can handle it.”
Patrick frantically shook his head, the motion causing him to get sick again. Nothing came out but dry heaves. Jono braced him over the toilet anyway when he would’ve sunk to his knees. He pressed his forehead to the back of Patrick’s sweaty head, expression twisting.
“You won’t hurt me,” Jono promised.
He’d done it before, in Central Park, and he knew he could do it again. He could handle it, even if Patrick didn’t want him to, because carrying something else in his soul wasn’t new to Jono. If Patrick was in a better state of mind, maybe he’d be able to stand firm. But he wasn’t, and Jono used Patrick’s glaring inability to say no to get the mage to agree.
And Jono would always hate himself for doing it.
It took nonstop cajoling for almost thirty minutes to get Patrick to channel his magic inward instead of out on the next outburst. The soulbond burned like fire where it connected in Jono’s soul but better that burning pain than the building going up in flames around them. Sprawled now in the bathtub, with Patrick curled up on top of him, Jono refused to let him see how much it hurt.
Far less than what Patrick was going through.
Magic ripped through Jono’s soul, cascading downward into a ley line far below that he could sense only because of Patrick. The soulbond acted like a grounding mechanism, stealing away Patrick’s magic to channel it somewhere else that could safely absorb it.
Jono suffered through two more bouts of Patrick’s uncontrolled magical outbursts while trying to keep Patrick from undoing his own pants. Jono didn’t say no to Patrick when he rubbed off on him, coming dry and shaking from pain more than pleasure.
But as the hours ticked over one by one, the chemical smell seeping through Patrick’s skin began to fade. When Jono took a breath and all he smelled was Patrick’s bitter scent, long-dried cum, and sick, he closed his eyes in relief. He hoped Patrick was finally coming down from his unwanted high.
Jono pushed them both to a sitting position before carefully guiding Patrick to his feet. Jono stripped him with gentle hands, murmuring all the while so Patrick would know it was him. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, and Jono paused every time he flinched. It took a few minutes to get him out of his messy clothes, but once he was naked except for his dog tags, Jono turned on the shower and pushed Patrick beneath the spray once it was warm.
Jono cleaned him up as quickly and carefully as he could, letting the events of the night wash down the drain, knowing it wouldn’t be that easy later on. Getting Patrick clean was important, and Jono committed himself to that task even as his own clothes became waterlogged.
Only when Patrick was dried off and wrapped in a towel did Jono get out of his own clothes. He left the mess in the damaged bathroom to deal with later in favor of picking Patrick up and carrying him to the bedroom, wincing as he stepped on broken glass. Jono tucked him under the covers before retreating to dig up a pair of his own sleeping pants and pulled them on.
He meant to get some water or Gatorade, at the very least some medicine, but all of Jono’s plans fled his mind the second Patrick murmured, “Jono?”
He returned to the bed, crawling over to where Patrick lay, eyes cracked open and no longer hiding. Jono could still sense the tight hold Fenrir had on his soul, keeping his aura hidden, and he was grateful for the god’s interference.
“I’m right here,” Jono said, gently brushing back his hair.
“Thought I dreamed you.”
Jono’s mouth twisted, his anger eclipsed only by his sorrow. “No, love. It wasn’t a dream.”
Patrick closed his eyes and didn’t cry and never reached for Jono.
Jono lay down beside him on top of the duvet, keeping his hands to himself as he watched Patrick slowly fall into a fitful sleep.
14
At the first sound of movement from beneath the duvet, Jono reached for the potion Victoria Alvarez had delivered around dawn before her morning shift as an RN witch at Mount Sinai. He picked it up off the nightstand, holding it with a careful grip as Patrick batted the duvet off his head.
Curled on his side, eyes closed and expression scrunched up in pain and disgust, Jono watched as Patrick carefully touched his swollen nose.
“Something died in my mouth, and I think my nose is broken,” Patrick rasped.
“I have something that might help with that,” Jono said.
“A gallon of whiskey?”
“Potion.”
“Pass.”
Jono pressed his lips together, not wanting to push the issue but thinking he should. He watched as Patrick slowly cracked his eyes open. In the midmorning light pouring around the closed curtains, his pupils looked even and normal despite the scrapes marring the skin on his cheeks. Jono reached for him without thinking, then aborted the motion.
Patrick stared at him in silence, watching as Jono slowly lowered his hand. A minute passed before Patrick worked his hand free of the blankets and placed it over Jono’s, threading their fingers together. Jono’s throat tightened at that action, and he stared at their hands.
“Just so we’re clear,” Patrick said in a rough voice, looking Jono in the eye, “if you’d have fucked me last night, I would’ve been okay with it.”
Jono didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Patrick rubbed his thumb against Jono’s hand before letting out a sigh that proved he probably did need the whiskey to sanitize his mouth, or at least a bottle of Listerine.
Patrick licked his lips, gaze dropping to their joined hands. “Look, I…I’m sorry I put you in that position.”
“What? Staying behind?” Jono said, finally finding his voice.
“No. I’m not sorry for that because you found me.” Green eyes flicked up to meet his own, and Jono never blinked. “I’m sorry I channeled my magic through you. I never wanted to put you in a position where you had no choice but to let it happen.”
“We’ve talked about this, Pat. Th
e soulbond lets you, and I don’t mind. Helping you last night wasn’t a hardship. It never will be.”
Patrick squeezed Jono’s hand, wincing when he turned onto his back. He ran his other hand through his hair. Half of it stuck up, while the rest was plastered to his skull in odd patches.
“It hurts you, and I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
“You weren’t in your right mind last night. I wasn’t going to take advantage of you after you—”
Jono broke off, teeth clacking together as he tilted his head back to glare at the ceiling. Remembering the state Patrick had been in when they’d reached SoHo was enough to ignite his temper all over again. He refused to bring that anger into the bed they shared.
“Do you know I’ve been shot, stabbed, cursed, burned, broken way too many bones, bruised some internal organs, but nothing hurts worse than getting fucking sacrificed to gods.” Patrick drew in a careful breath through his mouth instead of his nose, and Jono looked back over at him. “Some god I don’t know saved me before Tremaine got very far. I hate owing the gods anything, but I might be okay with this one.”
Jono didn’t even bother trying to choke back the harsh sound that escaped his mouth. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”
“I know.”
With Patrick’s shields down, it was easy for Jono to sniff out the lie. He let Patrick keep it.
“How are your eyes?” Jono asked instead.
“I can’t see your soul, so I’m hoping the shine is out of my system. I have a raging headache though. Kind of feel like I have the flu.”
Jono cleared his throat. “Come on. Let’s get you up. I’ve a potion you need to take and about a hundred text messages to answer.”
Patrick shoved the blankets down so he could slowly sit up, his heart rate picking up in Jono’s ears. “Shit. Sage? Kennedy?”
“They’re both at Ginnungagap. Sage has your dagger, though I’m not sure why you didn’t just keep it on you.”
“I knew Tezcatlipoca wouldn’t have just let them go. Giving them my dagger was the only way I could get them backup. I figured the gods who make my life a living hell wouldn’t want to lose it.”
“Next time, I’m going with you.” Jono unscrewed the cap on the metal water bottle and handed the potion over to Patrick. “Drink.”
“It smells disgusting.”
“Drink, and then you can gargle with whiskey.”
Patrick took the bottle from him and drank the potion in several long gulps, trying not to gag. He dropped the bottle on the bed after he finished and let go of Jono’s hand. Patrick realigned his nose with a quiet scrape of cartilage that made Jono wince.
“Don’t want it to heal crooked,” Patrick muttered, looking a little queasy. “Ugh. That shit you made me take is foul. Where’d you buy it from?”
“I told Marek it was okay to ring Victoria and have her come by.” Jono hesitated before saying, “He seemed to know exactly what you would need and told her so she could brew the appropriate potion.”
Patrick sighed as he slid off the bed, not put off by the fact he was nude. “The Norns probably want me in better fighting form for whatever will go down with Tezcatlipoca and Santa Muerte.”
Jono set the empty bottle back on the nightstand. “Santa Muerte?”
“A personification of death is running around in the fringe of the veil and the subways.” Patrick paused in the middle of pulling on a pair of underwear. “Do you remember where you found me?”
“Yeah. You were outside a building in SoHo with Áłtsé Hashké.”
Jono tripped over the name, mangling it. Patrick finished pulling on his underwear and straightened up. His gaze was distant for a few seconds before refocusing. “Coyote?”
Jono shrugged. “One of them?”
“Trickster gods are the worst. Fuck it. I’ll let him fight Persephone over me.”
“He seemed more pissed at Tezcatlipoca and Quetzalcoatl than about gloating over rescuing you.”
“Next time I’ll just sell my soul to a pawn shop. It would make my life easier.” Patrick yanked a shirt on, making his hair even worse if at all possible. “Did I call Quetzalcoatl Pretzel last night, or did I dream that?”
Jono snorted in amusement. “Yeah, you did.”
“Agent Pretzel is forever going on my shit list.” Patrick left the bedroom for the hallway, where Jono had tossed their shoes last night. “Tremaine has tunnels in his territory that lead to an abandoned subway platform. They built a shrine to Santa Muerte and fucked with the old subway wards.”
“That’s not good,” Jono said as he got up and headed for the guest bathroom.
“I know, but I think it could be our way into the heart of his Night Court.”
Jono let Patrick finish lacing up his boots in the hall while he tidied up the bathroom as best he could. Jono would have liked to burn their clothes from last night, but he settled for putting them in a trash bag, along with the towels, shower curtain, and bath mats. Having the lights on revealed the damage from last night, and it wasn’t pretty.
Some of the floor tiles and the sink were cracked. The toilet needed to be scrubbed down with bleach to sanitize it. The door was off its hinges and would need to be replaced. Some of the paint looked scorched, and the glass on the floor from the broken mirror needed to be swept up.
“Seven years bad luck,” Patrick said when he peered around Jono at the mess. “Glad we got renter’s insurance. Hand me my med-kit, would you?”
Jono bent down to retrieve the field-rated med-kit stored under the sink. Patrick unlocked the case and dug through its contents, coming up with a roll of medical tape. Jono watched as he tore off a strip and very carefully pressed it over his nose. The swelling seemed to be going down, but it would be a slow healing process, and the potion wouldn’t heal all the hurts Patrick had come away with last night.
Jono took the medical tape from Patrick and tossed it in the med-kit before leaving the bathroom. Patrick grabbed his wrist before he got very far, and Jono went still. Jono gazed down at him in silence, waiting for Patrick to speak first.
“If I didn’t go last night, we wouldn’t have saved Kennedy. I wouldn’t have found a way to get us inside. I knew you would find me the same way my old team would have,” Patrick said quietly.
Jono raised his other hand and touched his fingertips to Patrick’s cheek. “You don’t leave me behind again.”
“I can’t promise that.”
Jono wanted to argue, but the tired sincerity in Patrick’s voice made him hold his tongue. The oaths Patrick had already taken over the years, the bits of himself he’d sold off, all the promises that built him would never be enough to keep him whole. Jono refused to add to the cracks.
“Then do your best to keep me with you when you fight, and I can learn to live with that.”
“Okay.”
Patrick rose up on the balls of his feet to kiss Jono, slow and careful, the press of his lips a silent apology. Jono accepted it because he could do nothing else. He wouldn’t place his anger at the situation on Patrick when all the blame belonged to the gods.
“We’re taking down the Manhattan Night Court so you don’t owe Lucien shit,” Jono murmured against Patrick’s mouth.
“A sound plan,” Quetzalcoatl said from the living room. “We should get started on it.”
Patrick pulled back with a scowl, raking a hand through his messy hair. “You could’ve knocked.”
Jono curled a hand over Patrick’s hip to keep him close as he peered over Patrick’s shoulder at where the immortal stood, dressed in what passed as a uniform for a DEA special agent. His badge hung from a chain around his neck, and the choker of conch shells gleamed around his throat. The ozone scent that filled the flat made Jono’s nose twitch.
“It’s almost noon and we need to discuss the case. Lucien wants an update, and so do I. I told your friends I would give you a ride to Ginnungagap.”
“Sure thing, Pretzel,” Patrick replied. “Right after I make
some coffee.”
“And eat something,” Jono added.
Quetzalcoatl crossed his arms over his chest. “We don’t have time for your stalling tactics.”
“I’m not stalling. Unlike your immortal ass, I need actual sustenance. I can’t survive on prayers,” Patrick retorted.
They didn’t linger in the flat any longer than it took to brew a pot of coffee and some tea, and for Jono to make a couple of no-fuss sandwiches with leftover lunch meat and cheese.
Jono let Patrick take the front passenger seat once they made it to the SUV that was double-parked on the street in front of the building. Patrick seemed better, but Jono knew from experience the other man was adept at hiding his injuries and exhaustion.
Jono texted Emma and the others in the group chat, saying they were on the way while Patrick conversed with Quetzalcoatl about the case. He was only half listening when Patrick squawked out a “You did what?”
“Informed your director we agreed to collaborate on the case,” Quetzalcoatl replied.
“You fucking liar, we did not agree to that.”
“I either covered for you or the PCB took the heat for what happened last night. Considering what prowls the streets, I didn’t think you’d appreciate the press sinking their teeth into this story.”
Jono let them hash out the legalities of the case and who had jurisdiction for the rest of the drive, knowing his opinion wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t his job, wasn’t his skillset. He focused instead on the steady updates that Emma and Sage were feeding him in the group chat.
“Kennedy’s alive,” Jono announced during a brief lull in the argument.
“I’m a little surprised about that,” Patrick admitted.
“Emma got her to change back to human.”
“I don’t think she’ll look much better.”
All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2) Page 20