All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2)

by Hailey Turner

  “I’ll let Marek know we’re on the way,” she said.

  Patrick got behind the steering wheel. Even before he pulled into the street, Jono was calling Tremaine. “Put it on speakerphone,” Patrick told him.

  Jono obliged. On the fifth ring, the line picked up but no one spoke. Only the low sound of music filtered through the speaker. Jono was forced to start the conversation. “I don’t appreciate you taking what’s mine.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes at Jono’s proprietary claim, but it left him feeling warm inside.

  “How did you get this number?” Tremaine demanded after a heavy pause.

  “You really think you can hide from Lucien?” Patrick asked.

  “Ah, the mage. And—” Tremaine paused before continuing with, “The weretiger and my champion.”

  Wade whimpered. In the rearview mirror, Patrick saw Sage reach over to give the teen a comforting hug. Patrick wasn’t surprised the vampire could hear all four of their heartbeats, but he didn’t like Tremaine singling out any of them.

  “Bit of a predicament you’ve found yourself in,” Jono said, forcing Tremaine to focus on him. “You’ve fucked with a god pack, and that shit is just not done, mate.”

  “The treaties I hold with the New York City god pack still stand.”

  “Not talking about them.”

  Patrick braked for a red light, searching the intersection and the surrounding buildings for any threat. He leaned forward to stare up through the windshield, knowing how much vampires liked to attack from above. He didn’t see anything.

  “You hold no territory here, wolf.”

  “Name’s Jono, and my pack territory is just as valid as Estelle and Youssef’s. You owe me for what you did to Patrick.”

  Tremaine chuckled, the sound dry and amused. “I owe you nothing.”

  The light turned green. Patrick drove through the intersection, eyes flickering from side to side.

  Jono made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, but his eyes were clear and hard. “Here’s the thing. You got a god pack who will make deals with you and one that won’t. You think just because you’re a slave to a pair of immortals that means you’ve got power over us? You aren’t the only one who curries favor with the gods.”

  “Also, you’ve pissed off Lucien,” Patrick added.

  “Lucien will regret coming to New York,” Tremaine said flatly.

  “You’ve been off your leash a long time if you believe that. Lucien doesn’t regret anything.”

  “Here’s what you’re going to do,” Jono said before Tremaine could get a word in edgewise. “I’m issuing a challenge for what you did to Patrick. Me and you, in that ring, is where we’ll settle the score.”

  Tremaine was quiet for two more blocks before he finally spoke. “I’ve lived a long time. Killed a great many people, but when this is all over, I think I will enjoy killing you the most.”

  “You’re all talk, Tremaine. If you want to forfeit, just say so.”

  “Friday night, an hour after sunset for the fight. You will arrive before then so I know you haven’t forfeited. Under the terms of the challenge you issued, we will settle this in the ring. If you win, I will let you live.”

  “Aw, mate. That’s right generous of you. If I win, I’ll return your bloodsucking arse to Lucien.”

  Jono ended the call and dropped his phone into his lap. Patrick drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “You don’t want to kill him yourself?”

  “I figure the threat of being sent back to Lucien might make Tremaine do something stupid. Besides, I wouldn’t mind witnessing their reunion again.”

  “Huh.” Patrick shook his head. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “I told you that you make a better alpha than Estelle and Youssef,” Sage said from the back seat.

  “We don’t have enough clout as a pack to make it mean anything,” Jono reminded her.

  “Yes, well, take down Tremaine and things might change.”

  “What’s a little murder to help make your point?” Patrick mused.

  In Patrick’s experience, when fighting against the hells, it wasn’t a bad thing.

  16

  Thursday dawned clear and muggy. The low-grade headache that had been Patrick’s constant companion the day before had finally faded with the help of sleep and half a pot of coffee. Jono hadn’t let him flavor it with whiskey since he had an 0900 meeting with SAIC Henry Ng about the case, which was just unfair.

  “You don’t want to smell like you’ve spent the night pissed whilst out at a pub,” Jono had said before kissing him and shoving him out of the apartment with a thermos filled with coffee.

  Patrick could see his point, but he could also see the point of whiskey.

  His cravings were through the roof ever since he’d taken shine, and self-medicating was the only way Patrick knew to overcome it. No way was he ever going to touch that shit again of his own free will, but the comedown sucked.

  Holding on to his thermos tightly in one hand, Patrick flashed his SOA badge at the security guards on duty in the federal building that housed his agency’s New York City field office downtown. He tapped his access pass against the sensor that controlled the closest security gate and walked on through, bypassing the secretarial desk for the elevators.

  Patrick took the elevator up to the thirtieth floor. His office was on a lower level, but he hadn’t really seen it for almost two weeks at this point. The floor that housed the office of SAIC Henry Ng hadn’t changed much since Rachel Andrita had been ousted from her position and arrested for treason. Last he heard, she was being detained at a location only a handful of people knew of, and he wasn’t one of those.

  Patrick gave it another few weeks before the Dominion Sect caught up with her and she died under mysterious circumstances.

  Chugging down some coffee, Patrick waved hello at Henry’s executive assistant. The young woman had transferred from San Francisco to New York City, along with a few other support staff. Tiana Martin wasn’t a magic user, but she had a steel spine inside her polite demeanor that Patrick knew better than to mess with.

  “Door is open,” Tiana said with a quick smile, barely glancing away from the computer screen as she typed.

  “Thanks.”

  Patrick still knocked, waiting for the muffled “Come in,” before entering.

  The corner office seemed more welcoming than the last time he’d stood in it. The furniture remained the same, but the décor had been switched up to account for Henry’s taste. The warlock in question was in his late thirties, had an affinity for elemental magic, and could cut someone off at the knees verbally when pressed. It was a trait Patrick could admire when it wasn’t directed at him.

  “Sir,” Patrick said politely as he nudged the door shut behind him with an elbow. The silence ward wrapped around the office hummed to life, a burst of static in his ears before fading out.

  “Collins,” Henry replied. “You’re the source of all my headaches this week.”

  “Sorry, sir. Can’t be helped.”

  “I’m sure it could if we didn’t have a fight brewing in the preternatural world.”

  “If that stopped happening, we’d be out of a job.”

  “Some days I think that wouldn’t be so bad.” Henry gestured at the pair of leather chairs in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat.”

  Patrick did as he was ordered, setting his coffee thermos on the ground near his feet. “Have you read my report?”

  “Yours, and the PCB’s. The DEA promised our agency would be read into their current investigation by the end of today. You haven’t been answering your phone or emails.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Patrick hedged. This was the first major case he’d handled with Henry running the field office. The long leash Patrick had been given was probably due to Setsuna’s interference, but Henry didn’t seem as annoyed about that as Rachel had been.

  “I’m aware of how you run your cases, Collins. I also know you’ve pre
vented quite a lot of catastrophes if one reads between the lines.”

  That’s one way of putting it. Patrick shifted on his seat. “I’m trying to do that here.”

  Henry studied him for a long minute before sighing. “I understand this case revolves around a breakdown of treaties held between the Night Courts and the god pack.”

  “That’s part of it.”

  Henry might have read the reports, but there was nothing like putting a human spin on events. Patrick gave the other man a concise update from yesterday, sticking to the story he knew would be believed—namely, one that didn’t revolve around the gods and which skimmed over the fact he’d taken shine but not his escape from Tremaine’s Night Court.

  “If the subway wards have been compromised, we need to move on that,” Henry said with a frown when Patrick finished.

  “I understand your concern, but if we move now, I think that will endanger too many people. I have a plan in place, and the DEA has signed off on it for support purposes. I just need your authorization to use an SOA artifact.”

  “What kind?”

  “A barrier ward.”

  “That won’t be enough to contain the damage you’re describing in the subway, especially if the wards are damaged further. If you used a barrier ward for containment, you’d need to feed it power on a consistent basis. You aren’t capable of doing that.”

  He said it kindly, but it still stung. Patrick was used to other magic users pointing out his shortcomings. Ignoring the comment was the only thing he could do in a situation like this.

  “I can find a workaround. I always have.”

  “If you were any other agent, I’d tell you no, that I’d want you to find another way. But the director was very clear about letting you run your cases as you saw fit, and I’m not one to disobey her on an issue like this. Not after June. I’ll sign off on your request for an artifact, but I’ll be keeping some agents on call for backup.”

  That was the best Patrick could hope for, especially since he was keeping some details back. Lying to his supervisor wasn’t the best option, but so long as he made sure the SOA’s legal department still had a case to stand on, then his actions were acceptable.

  That’s what he told himself to sleep at night.

  Not that it did any good.

  Patrick took his signed-off authorization down to the twentieth floor where the SOA’s artifacts were stored within heavily warded walls. Artifacts were portable objects that retained magic even nonmagic users could wield. The SOA regulated theirs within strict parameters. Precautions taken at field offices paled in comparison to those at the Repository, a storage facility housed in a highly classified remote detachment of Edwards Air Force Base. The public knew it as Area 51; Patrick knew it as a headache.

  The Department of the Preternatural, the Supernatural Operations Agency, and the Preternatural Intelligence Agency all had equal control over the Repository. The magical and supernatural relics and weapons it contained were all drawn from one myth or another, either new or old. What hadn’t changed was their dangerous, destructive capabilities.

  Every country had an equivalent of the United States’ Repository within their borders. The buildup of magical weapons and artifacts had grown out of the two World Wars and peaked during the Cold War. That hadn’t been enough to deter governments from hoarding items capable of mass destruction in some form or another.

  Barrier wards were a powerful defensive tool that Patrick had seen deployed in a war zone many times, as well as on home soil. They contained the strongest shields any mage was capable of casting. Patrick had stood behind barrier wards that Nadine had cast and never felt safer. He only hoped they would be strong enough for what he had in mind.

  Patrick passed over the authorization and his badge to the agent on duty. While the agent uploaded the authorization and started the retrieval process, Patrick made a phone call.

  “Didn’t think you would lose the fight with the DEA,” Casale said when he picked up.

  “The situation changed. DEA Special Agent Delgado,” Patrick remembered at the last second to use Quetzalcoatl’s alias, “made a compelling argument. I’ll be at the PCB within an hour. I need to discuss an update with you.”

  “We’re still sorting out the mess from the other night’s run through the streets. Convenient that all of the CCTV cameras or security cameras outside local businesses for the entire route of that chase were burned out.”

  At least Hermes is good for something, Patrick thought. “Magic does that sometimes. You got eyewitness accounts though.”

  “Which any good defense attorney will pick apart. We’ll talk about it later, Collins.”

  Casale ended the call and Patrick put his phone away. A few minutes later, he was in receipt of a piece of quartz crystal the length of his palm. The magic resonating from the crystal had the feel of a high-level ward. Patrick breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he wrapped his fingers around the quartz and pocketed it.

  Patrick left and took the elevators down to the ground floor. He passed through the security gates and crossed the lobby, heading outside. As he pushed open the glass door and stepped onto the sidewalk, Patrick stumbled over something heavy that got underfoot. Grabbing at the door for support, he looked down at the ground.

  And froze.

  The black Santa Muerte idol was maybe the length from his wrist to elbow, the scythe and globe painted gold. A chill ran through him as he stared at it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

  Three years since he’d last worn a Mage Corps uniform hadn’t dulled his instincts. For all that he lived and worked in the civilian world, Patrick’s resting state was war, and always would be.

  Patrick shoved the glass door closed behind him and wrenched his personal shields out of his bones. He layered them for strength as the ear-piercing sound of gunfire ripped through the air with the searing intensity of the front lines.

  “Get down!” Patrick yelled as he conjured up two mageglobes and sent his magic ripping down the sidewalk.

  The federal building was surrounded by wards, and the protections would keep everyone inside its walls safe. The wards wouldn’t do anything for those on the outside. Midmorning on a busy Manhattan street meant there were a lot of innocent bystanders ready to take a stray bullet or spell straight to the heart.

  One mageglobe tore apart the look-away ward hiding the threat in plain sight. The other raised a secondary shield Patrick shored up with every ounce of concentration and power available to him as he sprinted for what cover he could find. The short cement pillars evenly spaced out on the sidewalk in front of the building had been placed there to stop a vehicular attack on the SOA. Right now, they gave Patrick something to hide behind.

  He threw himself at the nearest pillar, grunting from the impact. He got a glimpse of four motorcycles speeding down the street, each carrying a driver and passenger dressed all in black and wearing opaque helmets.

  The passengers carried fully automatic rifles with bump stocks that never let up in the assault on his location. Patrick’s personal shields remained intact, but the one he’d cast to cover the street buckled against the volley of bullets.

  Every single bullet cutting his way was spelled; Patrick could feel the foreign magic of a god chip away at his own with every impact. Each bullet felt like they’d been dipped in literal fire as they slammed into and, in some cases, through his shield, only to get stopped by the SOA’s protective wards.

  Say what you would about federal spending, but the money sunk into those wards were worth the cost.

  Defensive magic wasn’t his strong point, but Patrick still poured his magic out of his soul to patch up the tears in the only protection available. He hadn’t been quick enough to cast a wider shield in the initial volley—people lay on the sidewalk, a few unmoving and more screaming or moaning from gunshot wounds. Cars in the street were braking and swerving as drivers reacted in a frenzied manner. The sound of metal screeching together told Patrick at
least one accident had happened, but he couldn’t think about that right now.

  Patrick conjured up another mageglobe, filled it with raw magic, and sent it after the motorcycles. Normally he wouldn’t lob what was effectively a grenade made up of metaphysical energy into the middle of a civilian street, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  The mageglobe exploded between the third and last motorcycles on their drive-by shooting spree. The fourth motorcycle’s front wheel hit the pothole that appeared in the wake of the explosion, sending the riders flying into the air as the motorcycle flipped over and crashed. The driver hit the ground headfirst, neck snapping from the force of the landing. The body rolled a couple of times before coming to a stop in the middle of the street as cars swerved to avoid him.

  The shooter landed on top of a parked car, shattering its back window. She slid halfway into the vehicle, twitching from the impact—hopefully alive enough to talk because Patrick needed answers.

  The three other motorcycles sped away, disappearing with the skill of people who had done this before. They left behind hundreds of bullets and casings scattered across the street and sidewalk, wounded civilians, and a Santa Muerte idol that stood untouched by the building’s entrance.

  The idol seemed to watch Patrick, plastic skull beneath a draped hood filled with a presence he couldn’t look away from. Recognition scraped through his magic, the taste on his tongue like ashes. It left him cold, fingertips numb, as the wind picked up in a gust that rose to gale force speeds.

  You should have worshipped me, the wind seemed to scream.

  “Fuck you!” Patrick shouted back.

  He pressed his back against the cement pillar and sank his personal shields into the sidewalk, digging in as the wind battered the street. The protective wards on the building flared up ice-white, rising upward as the magic in their making reacted to the threat. High above, pigeons took to the air, cooing frantically. A gargoyle on a nearby building reached out and grabbed a couple of birds out of the sky for its lunch.

  As quickly as it arrived, the wind disappeared, dirt and paper and bits of feathers drifting down from above in the sudden stillness. Heart pounding in his chest, Patrick stared at the Santa Muerte idol, the feel of a god gone from the street, even if the taste hadn’t left his mouth. He swallowed against it, reminded of the chemical saturation of his taste buds when he’d taken shine. It made him sick to his stomach.