A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound Book 4)

by Hailey Turner

  If Patrick’s magic wasn’t so overwhelmed with the teeth-buzzing knowledge he was in the presence of a god, he might find Thor’s attempt at passing as human friendly if he didn’t know any better. But he did, and when Thor’s keen, blue-eyed gaze swept the crowd to settle on him, Patrick nearly forgot how to breathe.

  I hate feeling like prey.

  Thor waved at his fellow bartender, a tall, blonde-haired woman who sported a ponytail half made up of braids. She listened to whatever Thor whispered into her ear, her gaze flickering their way. Then she nodded and took over Thor’s spot with a smile, handling the orders from his customers.

  Patrick reached behind and grabbed Wade’s wrist, holding on tightly. “Come on.”

  Rather than stay where they were, Patrick headed over to the one open spot at the bar—the staff pass-through area everyone was steering clear of. Another electric jolt of recognition burned through his magic when they reached it. Patrick swallowed the taste of ozone, his right hand drifting toward his dagger. The person seated on the last barstool near the pass-through area twisted around to look over at them, dark brown eyes cut through with streaks of silver narrowing to slits.

  “Maybe I should’ve taken your bet, Thor,” the immortal said.

  The black leather jacket he wore was decorated on the back with a large beaded motorcycle patch in the shape of a colorful bird’s wings. Black fringe lined the front and back on the sides, arching over each shoulder. His black hair was shaved on the sides, with a central mohawk grown long and ending in a thick, tight braid that fell down his back, the end wrapped in red leather.

  “Next time you should throw money in the pot, Otenai,” Thor said mildly as he stepped out from behind the bar.

  “When am I ever in Chicago long enough to join your favorite pastime?”

  “Gambling is my second favorite pastime. I’ve made a living out of my first.”

  Otenai threw back his head and laughed, toasting Thor with the beer in his hand that wasn’t the golden color of mead. “That you have, cousin.”

  Thor crossed his muscled arms over his broad chest and stared down at Patrick. The Norse god of thunder was taller than Jono, with a presence that made all of Patrick’s hair stand on end. “What brings you to Chicago?”

  Patrick swallowed dryly, finding his voice after a second. “I was told I should come speak with you.”

  Thor eyed him for a moment before his attention landed on Wade. “The fledgling is underage in this form. I could lose my alcohol license for allowing him in here.”

  “Then close up so we can talk.”

  “Is what you have to say so important?”

  “It’s about your father. He’s in danger.”

  Thor’s eyes narrowed before he nodded, more to himself than to Patrick. “Very well.”

  Thor went back behind the bar and grabbed a rope attached to an old iron bell that hung from the ceiling. He gave it several hard pulls, the deep clang of the bell echoing through the bar, cutting through all conversation.

  “Last call,” Thor boomed. “Drink up, my faithful.”

  Rather than the protesting groans Patrick expected to hear, almost everyone at the bar finished their drinks quickly, even if they’d just ordered. People started to cluster at the counter to close out their tabs, or left cash on the tables before leaving the bar. Within fifteen minutes, the only people who remained were the immortals, a couple of employees, Patrick, and Wade.

  Patrick nudged Wade toward the bar counter, the two of them claiming stools several down from where Otenai sat. Thor eyed them before grabbing a clean glass from the workspace and pouring a pint of mead. He set the glass in front of Patrick, sliding it over the wood.

  “On the house,” Thor said.

  “I don’t drink while on the clock,” Patrick said.

  “It’s rude to ignore hospitality.”

  “This isn’t a home.”

  “Ah, but it is.” Thor turned to pick a purple-skinned apple from a bowl near the register and set it next to the pint glass. “Don’t worry. These do not come from Iðunn’s orchard.”

  Realizing that he couldn’t get out of performing hospitality under the god’s sharp gaze, Patrick picked up the apple and took a bite. The fruit was crisp and flavorful, a far cry from the out of season ones in the grocery stores these days. He sipped at the mead, the honey flavor of it coating the inside of his mouth.

  “Can I have one?” Wade asked, pointing at the fruit.

  Patrick passed the apple over to Wade. If the fruit wasn’t from Iðunn’s orchard, then it wouldn’t give Wade the promise of eternal youth. “Finish this.”

  “And the mead?”

  “You’re not drinking alcohol.”

  “I’d say a fellow warrior is always welcome to drink, but the laws in this country are not favorable toward those who fight,” Thor said.

  “Wade is eighteen,” Patrick said coolly. “He’s not drinking anything but water or soda.”

  “If the fledgling won’t drink, I’ll gladly take what you would offer him,” Otenai said, sliding his empty glass across the counter.

  Thor seemed amused by that request. “You have imbibed an entire barrel at this point.”

  “You exaggerate. Half a barrel, if that.”

  The other bartender poured another beer rather than mead for the immortal, setting it in front of him before leaving the bar area to go bus all the tables with the other workers. That left them in a small bubble of privacy Patrick wasn’t taking for granted.

  Otenai slipped off his stool and carried his beer closer, bringing with him the same electric feel to the air that crackled around Thor. The immortal claimed the stool next to Patrick, studying him with eyes that saw too much.

  “Otenai isn’t a name I’m familiar with,” Patrick said, breaking the silence.

  “The DMV out of New York is plenty familiar with Otenai Burning Sky,” the immortal said. “Hinon is another matter entirely.”

  Patrick frowned. It took a minute or so for him to pinpoint that name, dredging up his knowledge of myths studied over the course of years. “You’re of the Haudenosaunee.”

  Known more familiarly as the Iroquois rather than the name they called themselves, the Native American tribe called the northeast part of the country home. But gods, no matter their origin, had a tendency to wander.

  Hinon smirked. “I am.”

  “Little far from your ancestral homeland, aren’t you?”

  “I follow where Oniare goes. There have been sightings of the beast in Lake Michigan this winter, so in Chicago I stay.” Hinon raised his glass to toast Thor with a small smile on his face. “My cousin is good company. We thunder gods must stick together.”

  Thor leaned against the work counter behind the bar, his hair falling over his shoulder as he stared at Patrick. “Hinon is always welcome. You, however, bring trouble.”

  Patrick flexed the fingers of one hand against the edge of the bar counter. “I wouldn’t be in Chicago if the Norns hadn’t ordered me here.”

  Thor arched one thick eyebrow. “Did they now?”

  “Frigg told me to come here. Odin is in danger, but he doesn’t think he has anything to worry about.”

  “That sounds like the one-eyed bastard,” Hinon mused.

  “There’s a good chance the Dominion Sect is in Chicago looking for the Morrígan’s staff. If they know Odin is here, they won’t pass up an opportunity to take him.”

  “The Morrígan’s staff,” Thor said with a slight nod. “If it was in Chicago, we’d know. We’d feel its presence.”

  “Our intelligence seems to think it could be.”

  “Then your intelligence is wrong.”

  Patrick curled his hand into a fist. “If the Morrígan’s staff isn’t here, then information about it is. I’m not passing that chance up. You need to convince Odin he’s not safe. Maybe see about getting him to take a vacation in a warmer climate somewhere.”

  “Chicago is not Asgard. It is not our true home, but
it gives us what we need while on Midgard.” Thor straightened up and gestured at the nearly empty bar. “Worshippers to keep our memory alive.”

  “They won’t matter if Odin winds up dead and his godhead stolen.”

  Thor’s smile was slight and condescending. “You know little about our lives if you believe death would stop the Allfather. Ragnarök is a beginning and an end. It is a mourning and a celebration we all must dance to.”

  “The end of the world in your myths will look a hell of a lot different if the Dominion Sect rewrites it.”

  “They won’t get the chance.”

  “If you say so.” Patrick licked his dry lips and grimaced. “Can I get some water?”

  Thor poured him a glass, nudging it closer. “Anything else?”

  “Odin says no one can do political business in this city without going through him. He’s got a fundraiser dinner happening this weekend for a candidate.”

  “Westberg,” Thor said with a nod as he straightened up to his full height and started organizing the work area behind the bar. “I know of that candidate.”

  “Do you know his campaign manager is an immortal?”

  Thor narrowed his eyes. “I never said I’ve met Westberg, just that I know of him. I follow news of the election online like everyone else.”

  “Not one to hang out with your old man?”

  “Politics bore me. I prefer a more personal form of outreach.”

  Patrick pointed at the skulls and antlers hanging from the wall. “Listening to people drink their joys and drown their sorrows in your altar?”

  “It isn’t a crime to be worshipped.”

  “It is if souls are the currency.” Patrick pulled out his phone and unlocked it, swiping through his pictures until he found the one of the pawnshop slip. He held it up for Thor to see. “The SOA is building a case against Westberg for collecting rent payments in souls through pawnshop deals. They sell their souls, bit by bit, and Westberg buys them up. Why?”

  “You tell me.”

  “He’s got to pay Odin’s tithes with something. Money isn’t going to cut it.” Thor stared at him without blinking, and Patrick sighed tiredly. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  Thor shrugged expansively before starting to sort dirty glasses into a plastic bin. “Everything has a price.”

  Patrick glared at Thor, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “How many people have to die until he’s satisfied with a candidate’s tithes?”

  “It depends on the soul’s worth. You know that.” Thor shook his head as he leaned over to check the kegs hooked to the draft spigots. “Odin asks for payment. If a candidate wants to win, they’ll pay it.”

  “I find it real hard to believe that a man who spouts his hatred and disgust about magic would do a one-eighty and suddenly be willing to get down and dirty with the preternatural world.”

  “Mortals have always done crazy things for power. Why are you surprised?” Hinon said.

  “Closeted about his beliefs is one thing. Having an immortal as his campaign manager means I can’t discount the possibility he’s a victim here.” Patrick drummed his fingers against the bar counter. “If it’s a god using him as a puppet, then which one, and why? If it’s to get to Odin, then I’d put money on the Dominion Sect wanting his godhead.”

  “Your father needs to find a new hobby,” Thor said. He picked up another apple and tossed it to Wade, who caught it easily. The teenager bit into it with a crunch that spoke of perfect ripeness.

  “Thanks,” Wade said around the fruit.

  “If Odin is the target, then we need to keep him safe,” Patrick said.

  “The Allfather can take care of himself,” Thor replied.

  Patrick opened his mouth to argue, but he was cut off by the sound of glass shattering as something bright and heavy and smelling of the hells was thrown inside the bar, lighting everything up like a supernova.

  10

  The scorching heat of a hellfire bomb was unforgettable, a nightmare that should have only been found in a war zone, not a bar in the middle of Chicago on a Friday night.

  Patrick threw himself off the barstool and took Wade down to the floor with him. He ripped his shields out of his bones, expanding the protection around the both of them while Wade shrieked in his ears. Hellfire splattered against the shields, the overwhelming smell of sulfur making Patrick gag as the stuff slid down the magical barrier.

  Hellfire was like metaphysical napalm, and Patrick didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

  “What the fuck?” Wade yelled as the sprinklers went off, water sluicing over Patrick’s shields.

  “You really think Odin can take care of himself when whoever is after him is lobbing hellfire bombs at you?” Patrick shouted at Thor, even though he couldn’t see the god through the rapidly encroaching smoke.

  Warm hands grabbed him by the shoulders, shocking him with electricity, but they didn’t let go. “You need to get clear.”

  Hinon’s voice rang in Patrick’s ears like thunder. When he looked at the god, it was like looking into the face of the sun. Huge wings the color of the sky in a Midwest storm arched away from the god’s shoulders, lightning snaking around each feather. Hinon’s aura was a halo of electricity that made Patrick’s eyes water and his skin become staticky though his clothes.

  Hinon yanked Patrick to his feet, and Wade scrambled to keep up. The Haudenosaunee thunder god raised a wing between them and the crackling, deathly burn of the hellfire bomb. Patrick jerked free of his grip, conjuring up a mageglobe, the pale blue light at odds with the sickly hellfire shine around them. He grabbed Wade by the shoulder with one hand and pulled his dagger free with the other. Heavenly fire crackled around the matte-black blade, the prayers in its making reacting to the presence of the hells.

  “Get outside!” Patrick yelled.

  He glanced over his shoulder at where Thor had jumped the bar and was coming to the rescue of the handful of employees who had stayed behind to close up. One of the women was unconscious and looked badly burned as he picked her up off the floor.

  Patrick strengthened his shields and filled his mageglobe with raw magic, ready to form any offensive spell he might need. He took point on the way out of the bar, leaving warmth for freezing cold and a shock wave spell that caused his shield to ripple and bend from the force of it. Patrick layered his shields, channeling magic through his soul to shore up a defense a goddess had anchored in his bones.

  Every window in the bar shattered from the hit, glass flying everywhere. The building shook on its foundations but remained standing. Patrick thrust out his arm and sent his mageglobe careening forward to test boundaries. Raw magic exploded against the shield surrounding two SUVs on the street, both vehicles ready to drive away from the scene of the crime. That they hadn’t already meant trouble.

  A handful of people stood on the street, magic sparking at their fingertips and in some of the focus circles drawn around their feet on the cold asphalt. Of the four magic users, the only one who mattered to Patrick was the man surrounded by a ring of red-black mageglobes, the concentric circles tattooed on his palms dripping blood.

  “Isn’t that the same guy we fought on the Skellig Islands?” Wade asked.

  Patrick spun the hilt of his dagger between his fingers, getting a better grip on the blade. “Yeah.”

  “What if I eat him?”

  “You know, I wouldn’t stop you, but you might get food poisoning.” Patrick raised his voice. “Hell of a way to knock, asshole.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d answer,” Zachary Myers replied.

  The last time Patrick had seen Ethan’s right-hand acolyte, they’d been fighting over Órlaith’s life in Ireland. Back then, Patrick had support in the way of his entire pack and the Hellraisers. Here, in Chicago, all he had was Wade, but he couldn’t let a dragon loose in the Windy City. That was attention they couldn’t afford.

  Which left Patrick backed into a corner, and he never liked being in that position.

/>   “You dare defile a place of worship?” Thor shouted, his voice echoing through the air.

  High above in the cloudy sky, thunder rumbled menacingly. The wind picked up, blowing bitterly cold and making Patrick’s lungs burn with every breath he took. Even as Thor called up a storm, the wind carried something else to them—the unforgettable scent of death.

  “Really now, you used to have class,” a throaty voice called out as one of the SUV doors opened. “Is this what you have been reduced to, Thor? Finding prayers in a modern-day drinking hall? Drunken promises never amount to anything. I thought you would have learned that lesson after all these centuries.”

  The goddess who appeared was as tall as Thor, her generous curves filling out the all-white pantsuit she wore, which seemed to be missing a blouse beneath the suit jacket. The gold chain necklaces that lay over her cleavage matched the color of her high heels. Long white hair was braided back in an intricate style, with the braids tied off at the base of her neck. The loose hair beyond the ties whipped away from her body like a banner in the wind.

  She looked like her perfume of choice would be Chanel No. 5, but the smell coming off her was that of a grave with a body rotting away inside it.

  “Hel,” Thor snarled, his voice at odds with the gentle way he handed over the unconscious woman he carried to another of his employees. “You dare show your face after being exiled from Chicago?”

  “This city is no Asgard. I can come and go as I please,” Hel hissed.

  “You can go right back to the hole you crawled out of,” Patrick said.

  Hel walked forward, hellfire crawling away from every footstep she left behind. The sickly crimson glow wrapped itself around the low iron fence, melting the metal with a level of heat Patrick could feel through his shields. Her bony fingers curled into fists. The skin over her hands didn’t match the youthful look of her face, and Patrick wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was hiding beneath the surface.