Ginnungagap was the staging ground for the attack tonight. Jono knew Patrick still had some last-minute coordination with the SOA and the PCB to handle before he met everyone over there.
“Got something to tell me?”
Marek blinked, and his eyes washed out to a pure white. The ozone scent of a god filled the car, setting Jono’s teeth on edge. The feminine voice that came out of Marek’s mouth made Sage tighten her hands on the steering wheel.
“We cannot see the end,” one of the Norns said. “But neither can the Morai.”
“What good are a bunch of Fates if you can’t see the future?” Jono asked.
The Fates driving Marek leaned forward, the intensity of their gaze making Jono freeze. “There is more at stake than you know. Death takes many shapes, but it always follows war. The Dominion Sect must not claim either.”
Marek blinked, his eyes fading back to hazel. Jono watched as he hunched over, lacing his hands together over the back of his head.
“Fuck. Verðandi is worse than Skuld when she wants to make a point,” Marek mumbled.
“Need me to pull over?” Sage asked.
Marek swallowed audibly. “No. I’ll be fine.”
Jono and Sage shared a disbelieving look, but neither called Marek out on the obvious lie. He never fared well for a few hours after he had a vision or channeled the Fates who owned him.
“You’re not driving home from Ginnungagap. I’ll text Emma and have her pick you up.”
Marek said nothing, which was an answer by itself. Jono faced forward again, keeping an eye on the traffic as they left Chelsea behind for SoHo. Both neighborhoods were thick with early Friday-night crowds, and their numbers would only increase. Jono tried not to think about how many people were using the subway tonight and what might happen if their plan didn’t work.
When Sage finally braked to a stop in front of the guarded door of the Crimson Diamond, she looked Jono directly in the eye and showed her throat. “I will keep the pack safe,” she promised.
Jono reached out and pressed his hand to her throat, scent-marking her. “Dire.”
The god strain of the werevirus didn’t run in her veins. Sage didn’t have his eyes, but she had the heart and fortitude any god pack would welcome. The rank he bestowed on her was only proper. The wide-eyed, pleased look she gave him was one he would always remember.
Jono got out of the car and helped Marek return to the front passenger seat before he closed the door. Then he headed for the entrance to the Crimson Diamond and didn’t look back.
Human servants guarded the door since sunset was still thirty minutes away. Neither stopped him when Jono reached for the door handle and let himself inside. A pair of human servant hostesses and two cartel members stood in front of the flower wall with its neon sign.
“Jonothon de Vere,” the blonde woman said. “Our lord is expecting you.”
Jono highly doubted Tremaine had Lucien’s ability to walk in daylight and was here to greet him. “Is he now?”
The taller cartel member cracked his knuckles in a cartoonish sort of threat Jono ignored. “This way,” the man ordered.
Unlike the hostess, the cartel members didn’t wear bite mark scars around their throats, but they carried pistols like an extension of their arms. Jono followed them deeper into the club, taking in the crowd. The main floor was full of well-dressed people getting drunk or high, placing bets for the fight, or getting off as they waited for the vampires to wake with sunset and the night’s entertainment to begin.
At the edge of the marble dance floor, a cluster of low tables and leather chaises were guarded by heavily armed cartel members. Some of the men and women faced outward, eyes on the club, while others kept watch over their charges. Jono drew in a deep breath, taking in the scents around him—chemical, sweat, metal, gunpowder, and the electric tang of gods coming together in a toxic mixture.
Tezcatlipoca greeted him with a smile and a raised glass of tequila. Dressed in a tan linen suit, wearing an overabundance of gold and obsidian jewelry, the god had his arm around the shoulders of an emaciated woman. Her bones pressed sharply against paper-thin skin, the black, off-the-shoulder evening dress she wore barely clinging to her arms. Even in the dim club lighting, Jono could make out the embroidery along the long skirt that covered her feet, a pattern of skulls and crossed scythes.
Shiny black hair was pulled up in an intricate braided updo studded with obsidian pins and a cluster of marigolds. Her face was more bone than flesh, the skin there painted in the style of a sugar skull—deathly white, with black and red detailing around her eyes and mouth. She looked at Jono with pitch-black eyes, no sclera showing at all, and the only scent he got off her was death.
“Tezcatlipoca,” Jono said, never taking his eyes off the deity. “Santa Muerte.”
“Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte,” one of the men who had led Jono to the table said. The tone in his voice was that of a believer as he knelt and crossed himself, head bowed in obeisance.
Santa Muerte extended her hand toward the man, and he crawled forward in order to kiss the obsidian ring sitting prominently on her middle finger.
“I assumed you would forfeit,” Tezcatlipoca said.
Jono took a seat on an empty chaise without being invited. He ignored the furious looks thrown his way by a handful of Tezcatlipoca’s faithful. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you stink of the mage who didn’t tithe properly.”
Jono’s lips peeled away from his teeth. “Patrick doesn’t belong to you.”
“I suppose you think he belongs to you?” Tezcatlipoca took a sip of his tequila, gaze hooded. “He is owned by Persephone.”
“You think that makes him fair game? Some toy for the gods to fight over and use?” Jono leaned forward and picked up the bottle of AsomBroso Reserva Del Porto and pulled out the glass stopper. “Patrick is part of my pack. You don’t get to touch him, you fucking twat.”
Jono took a swig of tequila straight from the expensive bottle. The taste was smooth on his tongue; top shelf for sure. When one of the cartel members tried to yank it out of his hand, Jono grabbed the man by the throat and squeezed hard enough to completely cut off his air. Jono tossed the man onto the dance floor, not bothering to watch where he landed.
“My challenge was to Tremaine. You want in on it?” Jono asked as he leaned back on the chaise and gestured at Tezcatlipoca with the bottle. “Then get in. Or are you too bloody scared?”
The quiet click of a gun’s safety being undone and the cold press of a muzzle against the back of Jono’s skull didn’t bother him at all. He just took another sip of tequila and kept his eyes on Tezcatlipoca.
He needed to keep Tremaine and the gods occupied so Patrick and the others could find their way inside and go unnoticed for as long as possible. If it meant antagonizing a god, well, he’d watched Patrick do it enough. Jono figured it couldn’t be that hard.
Santa Muerte placed one bony hand on Tezcatlipoca’s knee. “My love will tear you apart.”
Her voice reminded Jono’s of the Norns: inhuman and not meant for this world. It was nothing compared to the one that howled in the deep recesses of his mind.
Jono pointed at her. “You’re on. State your terms.”
Santa Muerte smiled, the expression hollowing out her cheeks with shadows. “Your soul belongs to me when you die.”
“Sorry, taken. Try again.” Jono went to take another sip of tequila when the person holding the gun to his head shoved hard at his skull. He looked over his shoulder and scowled. “You mind, mate? Trying to drink here.”
“Respect your betters,” the man snapped.
“I would if anyone was better than me.”
“Do not kill him before the fight begins,” Tezcatlipoca said, casually lifting a hand to forestall the man from shooting Jono in the back of the head.
The gun lifted away, taking the threat with it. Jono’s heartbeat remained calm and steady as he went for that sip of tequila. “So i
s it going to be a twofer? Tremaine, then you?”
“You think highly of your chances when you are here alone.”
Jono shrugged. “I’m god pack. It’s my right to issue the challenge, not theirs. This, right here, is on me.”
“Ah, but you have already issued your challenge to Tremaine, and our guests are interested in watching you die.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you and I shall fight. If you win, you may leave. If you lose, you will be a gift to my greatest love.”
Patrick’s grumblings about being sacrificed to gods flashed through Jono’s mind. Jono knew he would die if he lost, but it was a risk he was here to take.
Jono sipped at the tequila a few more times before setting the bottle aside. He wasn’t here to get pissed, but to fight. Tezcatlipoca and Santa Muerte ignored his presence as they accepted gifts and prayers from what followers had come tonight. Jono didn’t recognize any of the men or women on sight, but he recognized the wealth they carried.
Almost everyone who approached was human, though there were several who had the scent of magic on them. None were mages, and almost all were cartel members, their alliance to the gods holding court by the dance floor and not the Dominion Sect, as far as Jono knew.
Sunset came and went. The excited air of the club shifted when the employees-only doors past the dance floor finally opened. Several human servants tottered out with fresh bite marks on their throats. The vibe of the crowd shifted into something more anticipatory, almost predatory.
Jono remained where he was, watching as members of Tremaine’s Manhattan Night Court arrived. They trickled through the door in ones and twos, gliding into the crowd freshly fed but still hungering for blood. Jono didn’t care about them, only their master.
They’d agreed on the fight happening an hour after sunset. Jono knew, after Maria’s visit at Ginnungagap, that Tremaine had probably set that start time to ensure the other Night Courts had time to arrive. It worked in their favor in that it gave Patrick and the others time to implement their attack.
Jono kept an eye on the crowd, and his hearing dialed up to pick out distant conversation. Guests were still arriving, but none were vampires from rival Night Courts. Over the course of the following hour, he picked up agitated whispers amongst Tremaine’s vampires. The frustrated worry in the bits and pieces of conversation he overheard told Jono no representatives from the other Night Courts in the five boroughs had arrived.
Jono kept his expression impassive and his heartbeat steady, glad no other werecreatures were in the club to smell his emotions. Not for the first time did he envy Patrick’s magic and ability to shield so tightly scent couldn’t get through. The trick was useful when it wasn’t being used against him.
Sunset was nearly an hour gone when Tremaine finally deigned to grace the Crimson Diamond with his presence. The master vampire of the Manhattan Night Court came out to welcoming applause from the crowd, raising his arms to accept their adoration like he was some posh lord who thought he deserved it. His white-blond hair was slicked back, blue eyes unblinking as he stepped onto the dance floor in a tailored suit Jono hoped would be ruined by the end of the night.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tremaine said, pitching his voice to be heard over the bass thump of the music still pouring out of the speakers. “You are my specially chosen guests for tonight’s entertainment. A once-in-a-lifetime experience involving myself and a god pack werewolf. I do hope you have placed your bets.”
The excited murmur of the crowd grew louder. Jono ignored the glances thrown his way in favor of raising two fingers and flashing them at Tremaine in a greeting the master vampire couldn’t miss.
“And when I kick your arse, your guests will get the pleasure of watching me tangle with your business partner over here,” Jono said in a bored voice.
Tremaine’s eyes cut away to Tezcatlipoca for a brief second before returning to Jono. “A grand event that would be, but it will never happen.”
“Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Jono stood and walked onto the dance floor. The marble beneath his feet was smooth, offering little traction. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to shift first or not, but ultimately decided against it. Jono needed to prolong the fight to buy Patrick time.
Besides, Jono wanted the bastard to suffer for putting his hands on Patrick.
Tremaine stood his ground as Jono came closer, an amused twist to his mouth that couldn’t hide his fangs. “You think highly of yourself for an animal.”
“More highly than your master thinks of you,” Jono drawled. “I’d say Lucien sends his regards, but that would be a lie.”
The hate in Tremaine’s eyes brought a smile to Jono’s face. “I have no master.”
“Seems like you have two. Me? I don’t have any.”
A human servant came forward at a snap of Tremaine’s fingers, silently removing his suit jacket, cufflinks, and tie before retreating again. Tremaine casually rolled up his sleeves, revealing pale forearms.
“That will change tonight.”
Jono shrugged. “Doubt it.”
“Pity you brought no one to watch me bring you to your knees and beg. I’m sure you’ll go down just as prettily as the mage.”
Jono had to check his rage before speaking. “You think I’d let my pack be around you after the shit you pulled earlier this week? Wasn’t gonna happen.”
“Then I’ll send them your heart to remember you by.”
“Won’t be mine they’ll get as a gift after tonight.”
Tremaine raised a hand and snapped his fingers again. A vampire appeared at his side, so quick Jono’s eyes could barely track him. Jono recognized him from the previous weekend.
“Yes, my lord?” the vampire asked.
“Where are Devon and the others?”
If vampires could sweat, Jono thought the messenger would be drenched. “They have not yet responded to the invitations. All calls to their Night Courts are going unanswered.”
Jono hoped Maria hadn’t been lying when she told Lucien she and the other master vampires wouldn’t be coming tonight. If they did show up to support Tremaine at the last minute, he only hoped Lucien brought enough weaponry to deal with the bloodsuckers.
“I came for a fight. So did your guests. You going to disappoint us all by delaying it? Or are you that scared?” Jono mocked.
“I fear nothing, least of all you,” Tremaine snapped.
“I’ll be sure to tell Lucien that.” Jono backed up a couple of steps and spread his arms. “Well? I’m ready. Are you?”
People in power were all the same. They hated having their authority challenged, hated not being the one in charge. Jono knew how to play that game in the werecreature community. Watching Patrick and Lucien go toe-to-toe told him it wasn’t much different in a vampire’s Night Court.
Challenges weren’t liked in any corner of the preternatural world for the sole reason they almost always ended with someone dead.
Hope you’re getting close, Pat.
Jono refused to pull at the soulbond between them. He wasn’t sure if the gods here could feel it, and he didn’t want to bring attention to it or Fenrir. Jono focused on Tremaine instead.
Vampires were long-lived. That didn’t necessarily mean they became more powerful with every century they survived. Tremaine was an exception Jono knew not to underestimate. He was Lucien’s child, two steps removed from Ashanti herself. A monster in human form who wouldn’t hesitate to pry open Jono’s rib cage and rip out his heart.
In turn, Jono couldn’t wait to tear the fucker apart.
Fenrir licked at his thoughts, the need for blood, for war, creeping through his veins. Jono did his best to ignore that siren call, but it was difficult with Tremaine standing in front of him.
Then Tezcatlipoca stood, drawing every eye in the room. The rest of the clubgoers might have only seen a rich cartel gang member, but those who only had one foot in the mundane world knew the truth. Jono saw a
few human servants put distance between themselves and the gods in control of the evening.
“Shall we begin?” Tezcatlipoca said.
He extended a hand over the dance floor and snapped his fingers. Gold fire burned into existence around his hand before falling like embers to the marble below. The magic spread rapidly, forming the same circle used during the fight Jono had broken up last weekend. Fiery golden lines formed the great circle, the wide face of a warrior rising in the center between Jono and Tremaine. The four quadrants formed, along with the sunbeam spikes. Once all the circles sealed together, the outermost one rose up in a wall, barricading Jono inside with Tremaine. There was no way out of the gods-built magic cage except through death.
This time, Patrick wasn’t up on the mezzanine with his gods-given dagger capable of breaking the spellwork. Jono had only what he’d carried into the fight—everything that could give him an edge.
Tremaine, for his part, didn’t look nervous at all. He’d come to this fight dressed for a night on the town, clearly believing Jono was an easy mark when the only person Jono was easy for was Patrick.
Tremaine flexed his fingers, his presence filling the fight ring while the roar of the crowd filled Jono’s ears. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”
“Lucien was right. You’re all talk,” Jono said.
At the mention of his master, Tremaine snarled out a command that Jono sensed deep in his soul, the push of power behind it familiar.
“Change.”
Black magic plucked at the werevirus running through his veins, but Fenrir kept hold of his soul so Jono could stay in human form. Tremaine’s power rushed through him and dispersed, the order nothing but sound in Jono’s ears.
Music filled the space between them. The crowd seemed surprised that Jono hadn’t shifted on the command of a master vampire, the murmur of their voices white noise through the magic caging them in.
Jono smirked, meeting Tremaine’s surprised gaze. “That all you got, mate?”
Tremaine snarled and rushed forward so fast he was only a blur in Jono’s sight. Jono moved, but not quick enough to escape the glancing punch to his face. He caught it on the chin, the speed and force of the blow making his jaw ache. He lashed out, fingernails shifting into the beginning of claws, and caught the edges of Tremaine’s shirt.
All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2) Page 25