He didn’t have Patrick, and he didn’t have an alliance with the vampires—yet. Estelle had more packs at her disposal, and Jono knew better than to rely solely on a god’s fickle blessing.
“I know I can,” Jono promised with the sureness of a man who knew nothing would get in his way from taking what was rightfully his.
Estelle’s smile froze on her face, nostrils flaring. He didn’t know what she got off him, what she saw in his eyes, but she made no move to go for his throat like back in December.
Jono stepped back, ignoring the pull of the wound over his ribs, refusing to show weakness to her. “Any retaliation against the packs who have left your sphere of protection for ours will be considered an act of war going forward. I am done letting you think you have the right to cross my territory.”
He didn’t demand a challenge because he knew one would never be fair with Estelle and Youssef. The only way to take control of New York City would be to fight for it block by block.
Jono was ready to do just that.
It was one thing to test borders, quite another to hire hunters driven by demons and invite them into everyone’s pack territory. The Krossed Knights would come for him and then go after everyone else. Of that, Jono was certain. Hate like that was never content with just one kill.
But Estelle and Youssef didn’t care about that, and if they wouldn’t, then Jono would.
He turned his back on Estelle and walked away, trusting in Emma to keep him safe. They returned to the SUV and got back in. Leon didn’t peel out, keeping to the speed limit so as to not arouse suspicion.
“Surprised she didn’t try to gut you,” Leon said.
Jono rubbed at his nose. “She had a guest.”
“Oh?”
“A hunter.” Jono leaned his head back against the seat rest and closed his eyes. “A demon.”
“You think they’re making another deal?” Emma asked.
“I think we’re not the only ones looking for alliances.”
If Estelle and Youssef were courting demons and hunters, then Jono was going to do whatever it took to get Lucien on their side.
7
“Thank you for coming,” a deep voice boomed over the chatter of the brunch crowd. “I’m sorry I missed the original pancake breakfast last week, but I did say I’d make it up to all of you.”
The crowd in the community center full of senior citizens cheered and clapped, most likely for the free food. An icy wind had blown up off Lake Michigan overnight with a strangely long reach, and it was freezing outside. The community center was on the same block as a senior-living housing complex in the West Town neighborhood. It could have been a hazardous walk to the campaign stop, but Westberg’s campaign had sent out dozens of volunteers to escort the elderly to their free meal.
“Do we get to eat the food?” Wade asked.
“No. I’ll feed you later,” Patrick replied.
Wade grumbled and pulled out a candy bar from his jacket pocket. Patrick kept his attention on the tall man in a business suit who was putting on a white apron as a dozen people laughed. As with any politician during meet and greets, he never stopped smiling. Patrick found it creepy.
He and Wade were standing in the back of the room while volunteers dashed back and forth between the tables holding all the food and the ones where the senior citizens were seated. A couple of people with press lanyards hanging from their necks were milling about taking pictures, while others had come to just observe the candidate and take his measure.
Patrick had come with both his pistol and dagger warded so no one would notice. His badge was clipped to his belt and hidden beneath his leather jacket. He was there to get a feel for the man the SOA considered a criminal. Wade had tagged along because he was bored.
“I heard there’s a Nutella café in this city. Can we go to it?” Wade asked.
“You can go to it later. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I wanted to go today.”
“I’m not stopping you.” Patrick pointed at Wade without even looking. “Don’t steal my car keys.”
Wade grumbled something rude under his breath but pulled his hand away from where it’d been creeping toward Patrick’s pocket. “Fine.”
Patrick went back to ignoring him, keeping an interested expression on his face as he watched Westberg work the room. While the candidate spent time serving up plates and ferrying them to a lucky few senior citizens, his campaign staff and volunteers discreetly passed out campaign information.
A slim woman with perfectly styled blonde hair and wearing a warm winter pantsuit seemed to be in charge of the event. She drifted through the room, answering questions from curious people in between directing the ones handing out food and flyers. It seemed inevitable she would make her way to where they were standing.
“Here to support Mr. Westberg?” she asked with a smile that was friendly enough.
Patrick shrugged, never taking his eyes off her face. In the high heels she wore, the woman was closer to Jono’s height than his. “Just checking out my options.”
“As a candidate, Mr. Westberg is the only choice you should make.”
“I guess. Never really been one to vote, but this year’s election seems like one I should pay attention to,” Patrick said, lying through his teeth.
“As his campaign manager, I can assure you Mr. Westberg only has the well-being of all Chicagoans at heart.” She extended her hand to him. “Kristen Lief.”
Her hand was cold when Patrick shook it, declining to give his name. “Nice to meet you.”
“Do you have a ticket for the brunch?”
“Nah. We had time this morning between errands and thought we’d check things out. We need to go soon.”
“I want chocolate,” Wade said.
Patrick rolled his eyes. “We should probably go now.”
Kristen kept smiling, the practiced expression of a consummate public figure. “Hopefully we’ll see you at a later campaign stop.”
“It’s possible.”
She moved on, deftly transferring her attention to the next possible vote. Wade leaned in once she was out of earshot and whispered in a hesitant voice, “She smelled like how Tezcatlipoca always smelled.”
The chill that shivered down Patrick’s spine felt colder than the winter winds blowing outside. Patrick kept his expression calm, moving with a deliberateness he hoped no one would see through to the fear that made his heart pound in his chest.
“Let’s find you some Nutella.”
They left the community center, the wind blowing outside a cold, cutting thing that made Patrick duck his head and pull out his beanie from a jacket pocket. He yanked it on, tucking the wool over his ears. Wade knew better than to talk until they were back in the SUV and Patrick had set a silence ward throughout the vehicle.
“Are you sure?” Patrick said as he started the engine.
Wade hunched his shoulders, gaze distant for a few seconds before he shook himself free of whatever memory was making his breath come a little quicker than usual. “She smelled like electricity. It was subtle, like perfume, but there. Kind of got the feeling she was trying to hide.”
Patrick tightened his hands on the steering wheel before he forced himself to loosen his grip so he could pull into the street. “Okay.”
Patrick wasn’t going to question what Wade had sensed. To him, Kristen Lief had seemed as mundane human as they came, but he knew from experience gods could hide themselves if they tried. Not to mention the ones who weren’t worshipped as much or as often as the more well-known immortals were weaker, less likely to be noticed and more likely to pass as human.
Being forgotten was a lonely existence for a god, but it made it easier for them to cause trouble in the mortal world.
Patrick thought about the supposed souls being offered up in lieu of money for rent and wondered if Westberg was the problem or a victim.
“I need to interview Westberg,” Patrick said, thinking out loud.
“Could’ve don
e it back there,” Wade said.
“Too public, and I need to see if I can even get permission to do it first. The case is being worked under seal. I can’t disrupt what’s going on with this field branch of the SOA.”
Wade slouched in the seat and put a foot up on the dash. “I don’t wanna go to the office with you. I want my Nutella latte.”
“Then I’ll drop you off at the café.”
It was on the way, so it wasn’t a hardship. Wade fiddled with the SUV’s satellite radio until he found a station he approved of. Patrick didn’t mind the choice of music, nodding along to the beat occasionally as he drove east toward downtown. They were on I-90 for a brief part of the drive before crossing over one of the tributaries of the Chicago River.
Eventually, Patrick turned right onto North Michigan Avenue, heading toward the skyscrapers in the heart of downtown Chicago. As they approached the DuSable Bridge, lightning flashed overhead, followed by the boom of thunder that Patrick swore rattled the SUV’s windows. He peered up at the sky in time to see a sheet of rain fall toward the earth, sending pedestrians without umbrellas running for shelter.
“Uh, pretty sure the weather forecast said windy and cold, not rain for days,” Wade said.
Patrick flicked on the windshield wipers, staring through the downpour at the bridge up ahead. Between one eye blink and the next, two ravens appeared, one perching on either side of the drawbridge pillars. Even from the short distance between them, Patrick could see the aura burning around the larger than normal ravens that no one else seemed to notice.
They spread their wings at the exact same time, launching themselves into the air, inky shadows against the cloudy sky. Follow.
The voices of Huginn and Muninn cracked through his mind, leaving behind a headache Patrick could’ve done without. “God damn it.”
“Any chance we can get food first? Maybe a latte?” Wade asked plaintively, eyeing the ravens winging ahead of them.
“I don’t think we should keep who they’re leading us to waiting.”
Wade crossed his arms over his chest and sulked, staring mournfully out the window as they passed the Nutella Café a few minutes later. “I hate gods.”
“You and me both.”
Driving south, Patrick navigated traffic, relying on Wade to keep an eye on the ravens and what direction they took.
“Oh hey, a restaurant. Maybe we can have lunch after all,” Wade said, pointing at the slim stone overhangs covering the entrance and windows of a building to their right as they drove past.
“I wouldn’t trust whatever they offer,” Patrick said as he eyed the location signs giving directions to the nearest parking garages.
“Aw, come on. If I could eat fae food and be fine, I bet I can eat whatever they have on their menu.”
“Your funeral.”
Patrick circled back until he found the entrance for Grant Park North Garage. Wade stuck close as they left the garage, taking the stairs up to the street. Patrick expanded his personal shields to keep the rain off them both as they hurried down the block to the restaurant Muninn and Huginn were still perched over.
The immortals watched them approach with black, star-speckled eyes. Patrick couldn’t meet their gazes for long without feeling as if he were going to fall into a void and never find his way out.
Inside, the ravens said, their voices echoing in Patrick’s mind. The Allfather is not one to keep waiting.
Well. That answered his question on who they were there to meet.
The restaurant overlooked Millennium Park and beyond it, Lake Michigan. That told Patrick it was the kind of place where prices were never shown on the menu. A doorman pushed open the door to Au Hall, allowing them to enter and get out of the rain. Patrick drew back his shields before they entered but didn’t drop them. Wade looked around curiously at the mahogany wood paneling carved with intricate designs that weren’t as random as they looked after a second glance.
“Your table is ready,” the hostess said with a smile and a vacant look in her eyes. “If you would follow me?”
“Creepy,” Wade said under his breath.
The hours on the discreet sign out front had indicated the restaurant was open for lunch and dinner every day of the week in set blocks of time. Today it was almost entirely empty of a lunch crowd.
The restaurant was two stories tall, with a mezzanine that ran along the front of the restaurant for eye-catching views of Millennium Park and Lake Michigan. The stairs on either end leading up to it were made of wood with gold-leaf banisters. Multiple crystal and gold chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light reflecting from the mirrors that lined the rear wall.
All the tables were empty, save one. The circular table in the center of the room could comfortably seat five. Three of the seats were taken, and its occupants watched them come with unblinking eyes.
The hair on the back of Patrick’s neck stood on end as they approached. His skin felt electrified, and not in the good way when he was with Jono. The trio’s auras were blinding, glowing like the sun, making it impossible for Patrick to look any of them in the eye. Within seconds the brightness faded, even if the heaviness of power in the large room didn’t.
“So good to finally meet the mortal who wields my prayers,” Odin said dryly before taking a sip of scotch.
Patrick’s fingers twitched toward his dagger, but he didn’t draw it.
The Allfather and titular ruler of the Æsir appeared middle-aged, blond hair silvered at the temples and blending into the closely trimmed beard he sported. He wore a dark gray suit that screamed wealth and status, the kind bought with a credit card that had no limits. Odin’s left eye was a clear, deep blue, while his right was steely gray in color, though cloudy, the difference easily explained away by heterochromia.
He looked exactly like the picture of him the SOA had on file; the agency just had the wrong information. Despite Patrick’s new knowledge, he would never be able to update the file.
“You may sit,” the regal goddess positioned to Odin’s right said. She offered Patrick a gentle smile, but that would never be enough to ease his wariness when dealing with gods.
She was beautiful in the way most goddesses were, and revered by her people the way queens expected to be. The immortal passed these days as a middle-aged socialite whose designer winter clothing would’ve been coveted by Nadine Mulroney if his best friend were here. Her light brown hair was done up in a chignon, and the jeweled sort of headband she wore could’ve doubled as a crown of sorts.
“Oh, hey,” Wade said happily. “Hot dogs!”
The table was covered in so many platters of food there was almost no room for the plates. The small tray piled high with plain hot dogs in buns was surrounded by tiny ceramic condiment jars. Wade plopped down in one of the empty seats and stared longingly at the tray of hot dogs until the god to his left picked it up and passed it to him.
“One should never go hungry,” the dark-haired god said, his voice deep and amused.
Wade snatched the platter out of the god’s hands and started to smother the hot dogs with all available toppings. Patrick didn’t tell him to stop, choosing instead to sit quietly beside him, keeping all his attention on Odin.
“Should I call you Aksel Sigfodr?” Patrick asked slowly. “Or would you prefer Odin?”
“I am worshipped by many names. I answer to them all,” Odin said easily enough, which wasn’t an answer. There were so many ways to piss him off if he didn’t like what name Patrick chose to use.
He figured asshole wouldn’t be the best place to start.
Patrick’s gaze flickered over to the goddess again, weighing who she could be and only coming up with one answer. “Frigg?”
Odin’s wife, the titular queen of the Æsir, smiled at him in a way he was sure she thought was comforting, but which made Patrick want to run for the exit. Sitting there reminded him of the breakfast he’d interrupted on Hera’s rooftop last summer. The only difference was he didn’t have Jono with hi
m to lean on for support.
“Well met,” Frigg said.
Patrick nodded slowly at that statement, in no way wanting to repeat it, because the words would be false. The dark-haired god at the table passed over a tray piled high with bone-in prime rib. “Take some.”
“I’m not hungry,” Patrick said.
“I am,” Wade mumbled around a mouthful of hot dog.
The god produced a knife from somewhere and transferred a thick slab of prime rib to Wade’s plate. The teen hummed happily at the addition, and Patrick resigned himself to letting Wade eat whatever he wanted at this table.
“You’ve done well by the fledgling,” the god said.
“We try,” Patrick replied.
“I know.”
The statement had Patrick eyeing the god warily, mind skimming through all the possibilities of who the immortal could be but unable to decide until he looked into eyes no mortal would ever have—pale blue with a thin rainbow of colors ringing black pupils that seemed full of stars. Eyes that saw everything, the way Muninn and Huginn could, only in a different way. Tasked with keeping an eternal watch for the onslaught of Ragnarök, Patrick wondered what the god saw these days.
Patrick swallowed dryly before reaching for the nearest glass of water. “Heimdallr.”
The immortal that stories called the shining god smiled, flashing gold teeth. “Yes. I see your lessons stuck.”
The knowledge that Heimdallr might have been watching him from a distance all these years made bile creep up Patrick’s throat. He forced it down with more water.
“Your ravens said you wanted to talk,” Patrick said, wanting this conversation over with as soon as possible. “The Norns wanted me to find you. They seem worried about your safety, but you’re a god, so I think you’ll be fine so long as you steer clear of the Dominion Sect. General Reed ordered me to find you. He thinks you might know where the Morrígan’s staff is, but I don’t think he knew you were immortal.”
A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound Book 4) Page 10