All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2)

by Hailey Turner

  Lucien wrenched his hand free from Tremaine’s back, pulling out his child’s heart in one easy motion. His other hand tore upward through Tremaine’s neck until his fingers caught on bone. Lucien ripped Tremaine’s head off his body with a meaty crack.

  Tremaine’s body collapsed to the ground. Lucien tossed Tremaine’s head on the corpse and got to his feet.

  “Leave the body,” Patrick rasped. “We need it as evidence.”

  A cold nose prodded his shoulder, followed by the warmth of a body Patrick tiredly leaned against. Jono held him up, a rock Patrick didn’t want to let go of.

  Lucien looked around at the protective wards and the dark areas in the barrier ward where Patrick’s magic had shattered every idol.

  “You haven’t had the strength to use that spell since the Thirty-Day War,” Lucien said, black-eyed gaze pinning him with a knowing look. “You’re just full of surprises these days.”

  Patrick gave him the middle finger. “Fuck off.”

  He was tired and aching, and still had thirteen stories of underground stairs to climb. The relief coursing through Patrick’s body left him feeling almost numb. They needed to get magic users down here with an affinity for defensive magic, but he knew the barrier ward would hold until then. A god’s magic was worth its weight in gold.

  They climbed their way out of the sub-basement for the world above, leaving the dead behind for later processing. Tremaine’s death was a true death this time, killed twice by the one who had made him, his business empire broken and his throne empty. The remains of what Tremaine had built in New York City belonged to Lucien now.

  They always had.

  Patrick wasn’t surprised when Lucien disappeared with his Night Court the moment they reached topside. The breeze of their passage was the only goodbye he got. Patrick, Jono, and Sage made their way back to the Main Concourse, the lights back on in Grand Central and the shadows gone.

  The scars of Santa Muerte and Áłtsé Hashké’s fight lay carved in the floor of the terminal, but that was the only damage in the area. Those commuters who hadn’t been able to evacuate in time weren’t dead. Freed of the shadows, they huddled together in shock or headed for the exits on stumbling feet. The fearful looks thrown his way reminded Patrick he was a bruised mess while walking between two werecreatures. He probably looked like a threat, but Patrick didn’t have time to stop and explain away his appearance.

  He let everyone think whatever they liked as he took in the Main Concourse, the chandeliers and other lights illuminating the space. The clock in the center glowed with magic, same as it had in the shadows cast by death’s shroud. Tiny sparks floated away from it up to the ceiling in a shining ribbon of light that defied gravity.

  Every constellation painted on the turquoise background of the mural high above them glittered like actual stars. Magic crawled across the ceiling in unstoppable waves. Protective wards became visible, flowing down the gold roof arches to the walls and the floors, spilling down stairs and ramps to the tracks below and the subway tunnels that crisscrossed the city.

  Patrick’s shoulders slumped in relief at the sight of working magic. Jono bumped his hand with a cold nose and Patrick absently scratched his muzzle.

  The wards would hold.

  “Let’s finish this up.”

  22

  The summer sun beat down on Patrick’s shoulders through the tree branches above. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, making his skin itch. The Yankees baseball cap he wore matched many others in the midday weekend crowd in Central Park, helping to hide his hair. The aviator sunglasses he wore cut down on the glare of sunlight as he stared at the line of people snaking away from the hot dog cart farther down the pathway.

  Patrick could easily make out Jono’s tall form in the line, arms crossed over his chest as he either listened to or ignored whatever Wade was telling him that required such dramatic gestures from the teen. Patrick’s eyes watered as he stared at Wade, the teen’s aura still far too bright to look at. It had gotten worse since last Friday.

  Wade had flown partway across the city after the attack on the Crimson Diamond, crash-landing in The Great Lawn in Central Park. Marek, Emma, and Leon had been waiting for him, sent by a vision that none of them were willing to ignore. Emma and Leon had talked Wade through shifting mass until he was human again. Then they’d spirited him away through the park and back to their apartment in the Upper East Side before the cops arrived.

  Wade had made national and international news with that stunt, even if no one knew his identity. It wasn’t every day a dragon showed up, much less a fledgling, and the excitement hadn’t died down. Neither had the conspiracy theories. Patrick had forbidden Wade from leaving Marek’s apartment unless officially summoned by the police at the PCB or agents at the DEA. The lack of ability to hide his soul made him too big of a target for Patrick’s peace of mind.

  Quetzalcoatl had done his best to run interference with the DEA when it came to Wade, but with a case this big, stonewalling wasn’t going to work forever. Patrick owed the immortal more than he liked, even if Quetzalcoatl didn’t see it as a debt in deference of Persephone’s claim. Using his position as a special agent with the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force, Quetzalcoatl had taken control of the investigation against Tremaine with the full support of the SOA and PCB.

  The investigation into Tremaine’s Night Court and the werecreature trafficking for cage fights was still bringing in witnesses. The werecreatures Áłtsé Hashké had saved, along with Kennedy, were being cared for in Bellevue. Jono had power of attorney over their treatment, and he spent a couple hours every day sitting by their bedsides, offering his support. No one had questioned his presence or called Estelle and Youssef after Patrick had banned the hospital from reaching out to the god pack alphas.

  Right now, Patrick was more than happy to let Quetzalcoatl take the lead on everything. SAIC Henry Ng wasn’t pleased about Patrick ceding the final investigation to the DEA, but the case would most likely be bifurcated at trial. Either way, the federal government would get its day in court against Tremaine’s decimated Night Court. Not many of those vampires were left, but Omacatl Cartel members who had been arrested were more than willing to sell out the remaining vampires for a plea deal.

  Lucien’s Night Court had extricated themselves from the fight with no one dead or arrested. Sergio had escaped, though he’d lost quite a few of his people in the fight, either to bullets or the police. He had excellent lawyers on retainer to fight for their release. Patrick knew he would be speaking to the New York State attorney general at some point about plea deals for the Anahuac Cartel members in relation to the SOA portion of the case. Lucien would be annoyed if he didn’t.

  Patrick shifted on the bench, gaze skimming over the crowd of walkers, joggers, bikers, locals and tourists alike. The trees didn’t provide as much shade as Patrick would have liked, but he wasn’t out here for an aimless walk. The reason he had ventured into Central Park was walking down the pathway with the straight-backed stride of a military man, despite the fact that General Noah Reed wore civilian clothes.

  Patrick stood, resisting the urge to salute, though he couldn’t stop himself from unconsciously settling into parade rest as the general approached. “Sir.”

  General Reed extended his hand. “Collins. I understand you’ve had an exciting couple of weeks.”

  Patrick gripped his hand for a firm shake before letting go. “That’s one way of putting it, sir.”

  Reed took a seat on the bench, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket. With an appearance of a man in his midfifties, Reed was short and barrel-chested, his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed to exact regulations. He always carried a hint of smoke around him. Most people attributed that to his chain-smoking habit, but Patrick was one of the few who knew that was a cover.

  “Take a seat and ward us, Collins.” Reed waved the pack of cigarettes at Patrick. “Want one?”

  Patrick’s nicoti
ne patches hadn’t been used in over a week, but he’d gone through three packs of cigarettes since lying on that altar. He didn’t have it in him to say no right now and took what was on offer. “Thank you, sir.”

  Reed tapped out two cigarettes, and Patrick lit both with a snap of his fingers and a bit of mage fire. Then he wrote out a silence ward on the wooden bench slat. Static flowed over their area, a bubble of silence encasing them. They smoked for a minute or two, watching the crowd, before Reed spoke.

  “I’m giving a speech at the United Nations tomorrow morning about promoting shared defenses against the hells.” Reed took a hit off the cigarette, blowing smoke out of his nose that smelled more like sulfur than tobacco. “It’s irritating how human memory fades even after a few years.”

  Patrick said nothing, keeping his eyes on Jono and Wade, who had finally reached the front of the line and were receiving their hot dogs. “Some of us don’t forget.”

  “I know you don’t. How is the fledgling?”

  “A mess.” Patrick flicked ash off the tip of his cigarette. “Trauma does that.”

  “He has learned bad habits. I saw his soul from a kilometer away.”

  “He never learned anything. Kid didn’t know what he was for years. I would appreciate it if you could teach him how to hide before you leave.”

  Reed leaned back against the wooden bench, eyeing Patrick. For a moment, his brown eyes flashed golden in the sunlight. “You speak as if he will be staying.”

  Patrick looked away from the dragon’s intense gaze, attention drifting back to Jono and Wade, who were now heading their way. “Wade needs therapy, not war.”

  “He is of my kind.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s part of my pack, sir. Jono would fight you over him.”

  “Gods are meddlesome and annoying, as are their vessels.” Reed took another drag off of his cigarette, the tip glowing orange. “You are human and mortal. You can’t give the fledgling what he needs.”

  Patrick’s mouth twisted. “You told him to stay with me. He’s staying, sir.”

  He didn’t want Wade to leave here today, pressured into signing a contract with the US Department of the Preternatural. Patrick remembered the feeling of hopelessness he’d experienced when he signed his own contract all those years ago, but he’d known what he’d been getting into back then. At least, he thought he had.

  “You think so?”

  “Wade has been held captive, tortured, and forced to fight for his life since he was fourteen. He’s had his entire world upended for the second time last week when he learned what he was. No professional psychiatrist would approve him for basic training, much less active duty.”

  “He would be better off with his own kind.”

  “Kid is better off with his pack,” Jono said as he and Wade breached the silence ward, Patrick’s magic making room for them. “You aren’t taking him.”

  Patrick winced at the antagonistic tone in Jono’s voice. “Jono.”

  “Nah, Pat. We already discussed this. You want me to ring Sage and tell her to come down here to argue with this bloke?”

  “He’s not some bloke, Jono,” Patrick said, pinching his now fully healed nose in aggravation. “He’s a three-star Army general.”

  Wade unsubtly hid behind Jono as he scarfed down a hot dog while juggling three more. He didn’t stop eating. Jono stayed where he was and shoved his sunglasses on top of his head to glare at Reed.

  “You aren’t taking the kid.”

  “Not a kid,” Wade muttered from behind him.

  Patrick covered his face with one hand before shaking his head in frustration. “Sir—”

  Reed held up a hand and Patrick shut up. The general breathed out a curl of smoke, his cigarette half burned out between his thick fingers. “You can’t give the fledgling what he needs.”

  “And you can?” Jono shot back. “I know your sort, all you blokes in uniform. They’d come around the block back home looking to recruit us. They’d promise a way out and a way off the dole. All we had to do was stand on the front lines and die.”

  “I take it you didn’t accept their offer since you are here.”

  “How I came here isn’t your business. Neither is Wade. You might be hiding as some hotshot general, but that doesn’t change your way of thinking. All you lot care about is winning.” Jono’s eyes cut to Patrick, the anger in his gaze tempered by concern. “You don’t care about what’s left behind when war gets peeled away.”

  Patrick bit the inside of his cheek, chewing on skin rather than the words tumbling through his mind. This wasn’t how he expected the meeting to go.

  “Mortal lives are short compared to ours. The fledgling will outlive you by ten lifetimes and more.”

  Jono shrugged. “Wade will always be pack.”

  Reed grunted loudly as he stood. “Walk with me, Collins.”

  Patrick transferred the silence ward from the bench to a mageglobe and spun up a look-away ward as well before getting to his feet. He glanced at where Jono and Wade stood before facing Reed. “Sir?”

  “Your pack may follow.”

  Patrick wasn’t sure if the general included Wade in that count. He matched his stride to Reed’s as Jono and Wade fell in behind them. The pace was casual as they meandered down the pathway, heading east as the sun shined overhead.

  “I wished you would have stayed with the Mage Corps,” Reed said after a couple of minutes. “This would be easier if you had.”

  Patrick swallowed dryly. “Sir?”

  “Back in June, Congress authorized another audit on the Repository once it was confirmed Ethan Greene and the Dominion Sect were behind the attack here in New York City.”

  A chill went down Patrick’s spine, despite the summer heat. His fingertips brushed against the hilt of the dagger strapped to his right thigh, but it didn’t provide any comfort. “What did they find?”

  “It’s what they didn’t find that is the problem.”

  Patrick clenched his hands into fists. “Fuck. What did Ethan take?”

  “Back in World War Two, the United States came into possession of a staff,” Reed said after a long pause. “It was recovered from the Nazis toward the end of the war. We found it at Auschwitz II–Birkenau.”

  Patrick opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap, his stomach twisting. “Sir?”

  “Hitler would never subject his own people to the atrocities the Nazis committed during the war, but he still needed souls to power the dead. At the time, Allied forces never publicly disclosed how he created the number of zombies he deployed, but we couldn’t hide from history where he procured the bodies.”

  The Holocaust was a tragedy on a scale that was difficult to comprehend, even for those who had lived through that war. The horrific genocide committed by the Nazis was a reminder that monsters could be all too human in the worst way.

  “Our government kept the staff?”

  “We didn’t know what it was back then. Neither did any of the Nazi war criminals hunted down in Brazil. Those who were captured after the war and extradited back to Germany for trial said Josef Mengele was never seen without it beyond the range of most cameras.”

  “Mengele,” Patrick echoed hollowly. “The necromancer?”

  “The bastard died a free man before he could be brought to justice to pay for his war crimes. We know he used the staff, we just don’t know how. He carried the answers we needed to his grave, and no one has been able to raise his soul.” Reed pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. He tapped at the screen a couple of times before passing it over. “For decades we thought it was an artifact, not a weapon. We were wrong.”

  Patrick took the phone and stared at the screen. The picture was of a grainy, black-and-white archival photograph, torn and yellowed at the edges. Faded pencil marks listed out a serial number on an old tag pinned beneath it. Patrick zoomed in on the man in the center of a group of SS officers. His face wasn’t looking at the camera but at someone else, the wooden staff gri
pped in one hand.

  Reed took another drag of his cigarette. “Look at the next one.”

  Patrick dutifully swiped to the next picture, this one crisper and clearer than the other one. Taken in color, the wooden staff was long, the tip shod in iron and the head a twist of Celtic knotwork depicting leaves, ravens, and three phases of the moon linked together. It all wrapped around a dull quartz crystal that could barely be seen between the open spaces of the knotwork. The wood itself seemed rough rather than sanded smooth. Patrick assumed it was the quality of the picture before he zoomed in and saw that hundreds of tiny marks were notched into the staff.

  He stared at the picture for a few seconds longer before passing the phone back to Reed. “This is what’s missing?”

  “Yes. Since June.”

  “What is it?”

  Reed put his phone away, staring straight ahead. “Research back in the nineteen-nineties finally pinpointed a possible origin. We believe it belongs to the Morrígan.”

  Patrick bit down on the inside of his bottom lip until it bled. He remembered what Huginn and Muninn had warned him about before the attack in June, and again last week. Some nightmares took time to form, but when they did, they were all-consuming.

  “War is owed what was stolen from her,” Patrick said in a hollow voice.

  Reed glanced at him, seemingly unsurprised at Patrick’s words. “Ethan has a couple of months’ lead on us—”

  “Try a couple of years.” Patrick breathed in sharply, fingers itching for another cigarette. “Odin’s ravens warned me back in June before things went FUBAR about something being stolen. I didn’t know what they were talking about back then.”

  He did now.

  “You think Ethan and the Dominion Sect stole it during the Thirty-Day War and not this summer?”