Patrick rubbed at the back of his neck, the twinge he’d felt there after the car accident gone thanks to a healing potion. “I didn’t need to be held up in a hospital when a potion from one of your witches here worked just fine. The wreck wasn’t that bad.”
“If you’re sure, though I’m concerned about the Dominion Sect targeting you twice now.”
Patrick tried not to laugh. “Maybe they just don’t like me.”
Dabrowski rolled his eyes. “It’s a problem if they’re targeting SOA agents.”
“I fought them in the Thirty-Day War. They’re terrible with grudges.”
“I’d offer you a temporary partner to watch your back, but the director said it wasn’t necessary.”
Patrick would’ve fought him on that offer if Dabrowski had gone through with it. “I’m used to handling my cases alone. I’ll be fine, sir.”
“Chicago might not be,” Dabrowski drawled.
“I’ll do my best not to allow demons to scratch the Bean again.”
“It’s ugly. I might look the other way if you do.” Dabrowski sighed and leaned back in his chair, causing the leather to squeak. “We have witches in Lincoln Park working through the addresses affected from being within the radius of the spell’s epicenter. Everyone’s souls should be cleansed by tomorrow morning. If we miss anyone, we’re telling them to call a support number rather than going to a hospital to keep contamination to a minimum.”
“Want me to get Legal to work on subpoenas for Westberg’s itinerary?”
“Send in the request, and have them work with the AG’s office. I have a feeling we’ll need to move faster on the rent payment by way of souls case. See if you can’t track down Westberg’s campaign manager.”
Considering Patrick was pretty damn certain Kristen was Hel, he wasn’t looking forward to that. “Right. Anything else?”
“Get it to stop snowing.”
Patrick snorted. “I have zero affinity for weather magic. Sorry, you’re stuck.”
Dabrowski waved him off. “Report in when you find something. I’m going to be living at the office this weekend it feels like.”
Patrick left the SAIC’s office, intent on stopping by his borrowed one to update his report before heading back to the hotel. He didn’t pay any attention to the other agent that got into the elevator with him until they spoke.
“Fancy meeting you here, Pattycakes.”
Patrick’s head snapped up, and he stared in disbelief at where Hermes lounged against the other side of the elevator, dressed in a generic suit, but still sporting his dyed curls. They were a neon orange tipped in fire truck red this time, ensuring he’d stand out in a crowd. Patrick assumed a lot of magical misdirection went into no one in the SOA building seeing the non-regulation hair color.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Patrick said.
Hermes wiggled his fingers at Patrick. “My job, Pattycakes. I hope you’re hungry because I’m here to take you to dinner.”
“I’m not eating with you.”
“You’re mistaken. I’m not the one you’re having dinner with. That would be Persephone.”
Patrick went cold. The thought of facing the goddess who owned his soul debt was not something he ever liked doing. He swallowed thickly, fingers tightening on the file he carried. “I had dinner plans already, and I’m in the middle of a case.”
“Cancel. I’m to take you to her, and we both know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Not through the veil,” Patrick said sharply. “I can’t lose any time.”
“A few hours won’t hurt you. It didn’t hurt your wolf the other night.”
Patrick stared at him. “What?”
Hermes shoved himself away from the wall as the elevator slowed to a stop. “Didn’t he tell you? Fenrir dragged him and Lucien across the veil to have a friendly little chat in Ginnungagap.”
Patrick swallowed, refusing to show the hurt and anger that Hermes’ words dredged up. Jono had told him about Lucien, but not that they’d gone past the veil.
He’s sleeping on the couch when we get back home.
“I need to put my case file away, and we’re driving, Hermes,” Patrick said flatly.
The god smirked, icy amusement in his gold-brown eyes. “Sure thing, Pattycakes.”
Patrick had to remind himself that punching Hermes in the face would result in nothing but possible broken bones and some definite bruises—for himself.
Hermes followed Patrick out of the elevator and to the visiting agent office he’d been assigned since arriving in Chicago. He locked the case file in a filing cabinet, grabbed his leather jacket off the hook behind the door, and pulled on his beanie and gloves.
Patrick wasn’t waylaid by anyone on his way out of the building. He figured Hermes had something to do with that, but didn’t say anything. They walked in silence to the parking garage across the street, snow pelting them with every step they took. By the time Patrick made it to his second SUV he’d been given from the local motor pool, his nose felt frozen and so did his fingers.
“I hate reactionary storms,” Patrick muttered as he started the car and turned the heater on full blast. “Where am I going?”
“Dunkin’ Donuts on West Adams Street,” Hermes said.
“I thought you said dinner?” Patrick stared at him. “Are you serious?”
Hermes tugged on his tie, and Patrick watched his clothes melt away as if they weren’t real, revealing the outfit Patrick normally expected to see him in: ripped jeans, an old band T-shirt, and a spiked leather jacket.
“Persephone likes their donuts.”
Patrick wasn’t going to question a goddess’ taste in food and so kept his mouth shut.
The drive to the particular Dunkin’ Donuts spot would’ve taken fifteen minutes tops on a good night. In the middle of a snowstorm, it took closer to thirty. The roads were icy even with the snow plows and salt trucks having gone over the downtown streets. The Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner was brightly lit, like a neon oasis in the storm. Patrick would’ve driven past it while looking for a parking garage, when Hermes pointed at the street in front of the business.
“Park over there,” he said.
“Government plates aren’t going to get me out of being towed in this weather,” Patrick warned.
“No one will see your ride.”
Whatever magic Hermes wanted to use on the SUV was fine by Patrick so long as he didn’t lose the vehicle to Chicago tow trucks. Knowing the god, it was a distinct possibility, but he had to risk it, so he parked where Hermes told him to.
Not many people were inside the Dunkin’ Donuts when they entered, but Hermes made a beeline for two women seated at a table by the window. The glass was fogged over a little from the inside heat, but not enough that one couldn’t see the snow blowing past outside.
“I brought him, now where are my hash browns?” Hermes asked.
Persephone gestured at the white bag sitting in front of an empty chair. “All yours.”
Patrick stayed where he was, heart pounding in his chest so hard it hurt to breathe as he stared at the Greek goddess and queen of the Underworld. He didn’t realize his phone was ringing until Persephone smiled slightly at him and popped a donut hole into her mouth.
“You should answer that,” she said.
Patrick blinked, the world reorienting around himself. He dug out his cell phone, pulling off his glove with his teeth so he could accept the call. Jono’s voice came through the speaker before Patrick even had the phone pressed to his ear.
“Are you all right? You bloody well gave me a heart attack just now,” Jono said.
Patrick realized the soulbond was a humming tie between them and most of the discomfort stemmed from his end. He took a moment to try to tamp it down, to shove it aside and ignore it.
“I’m fine,” Patrick replied.
“You don’t feel fine, Pat.”
“Hermes is annoying. Don’t worry, he didn’t take us through the veil like Fenrir did for y
ou.” At Jono’s startled silence, Patrick grimaced. “Yeah, forgot about that, didn’t you?”
“Pat—”
“Later. I don’t want to hear it right now.”
Patrick ended the call. He gripped his phone to stop himself from digging his nails into his palms. Persephone never looked away from his face, the faint curve of her mouth knowing in a way he didn’t like.
She was dressed in winter clothing, her gold-brown skin glowing healthily beneath the bright overhead lights. Her curly, dark brown hair was barely tamed beneath a beanie with a pom-pom. The freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks never seemed to change, no matter the months or years between their meetings.
“You’ve never met my mother,” Persephone said, nodding at the woman who sat opposite of her.
Patrick’s gaze snapped to the Greek goddess of harvest and so much more, mouth dry and at a loss for words. Demeter studied him with crystalline blue eyes, giving nothing away. Her straight white hair fell to her shoulders in a fashionable long bob, the faint wrinkles on her face barely aging her. Her winter clothes were more fashionable than Persephone’s, and the black fur coat draped over the back of her chair dragged on the floor.
His fingers itched with an electric burn that caused them to exude a pop of static electricity when he pulled back a chair to sit down. He shoved his phone into his jacket pocket, letting it go with some effort. Half a dozen donuts were left in a box that held twelve, but Patrick didn’t reach for one.
“So.” Patrick cleared his throat. “Why are you in Chicago?”
“Because this is where Macaria is,” Persephone said.
“Right.” Patrick glanced at Demeter. “Are you here for emotional support?”
Demeter reached for a blueberry donut, tearing it into bite-sized pieces. “I am here because of the spell which was cast that pulled power from the nexus.”
“It wasn’t a sacrificial one.”
“And yet, I hear Odin is missing.”
“He’s not dead yet.”
Demeter popped a piece of donut into her mouth and chewed slowly. She didn’t blink, and Patrick tried not to squirm beneath her gaze. Her aura was a flickering, golden glow around her that thankfully didn’t burn his eyes. He wondered if she had dimmed it out of politeness for his presence or if the people who remembered her were thin on the ground these days.
“The spell wasn’t for Odin,” Persephone said.
What little warmth Patrick had felt walking into the shop evaporated at her words. A chill settled in his bones that no amount of heat charms embedded in his leather jacket could cure.
“Then who was it for?” he asked, thinking of the pentagram on that hardwood floor in Westberg’s home. All the candles and figurines and blood spilled for a reason no one knew—except Demeter seemed to.
“They were for Macaria. They were to Freyr,” Demeter said.
Patrick rubbed at his eyes hard enough he had to blink away black spots when he opened them again. “Freyr. He’s—what? The Norse god of fair weather, which we could use, and—”
Patrick snapped his mouth shut so fast his teeth caught the edge of his tongue, cutting into it. The taste of blood filtered over his tongue, but he hardly noticed it. He stared at Demeter, stomach churning badly.
Persephone folded her hands together, nails digging into the sun-kissed skin over her bones. “Fertility.”
Patrick shoved himself to his feet, hurried to the garbage bin near the door, and puked up everything left in his stomach from lunch and enough bile it came out of his nose. He heaved for a few seconds more, clammy and cold. It felt as if his world had been ripped apart all over again, the same way his soul had twisted from the backlash running through his twin’s.
A warm hand settled on the back of his neck. He jerked away from the touch, breathing harshly through his mouth, wishing he had a bottle of whiskey at hand to wash away the sour taste.
“No,” Patrick rasped out, staring at Persephone, only dimly aware that no one was paying any attention to them.
“Freyr may not be of our pantheon, but like knows like. Fertility spells resonate because of the life they gift to those asking.”
“No.”
Persephone stepped closer, bringing with her the scent of spring that wasn’t strong enough to overpower the taste and smell of bile in his mouth, in his throat. “You didn’t take the shot in Cairo and this is where it led us.”
Patrick flinched with his entire body, struggling to breathe. His phone started ringing, but he couldn’t answer it when the effort to get air into his lungs hurt so much.
“You owe me my daughter’s life, Patrick. That was my price when I saved you.”
He swallowed so hard his throat clicked, the scars on his chest pulling tight. “I know.”
Persephone touched his cheeks, wiping away the tears he hadn’t known he’d shed. “You will pay your soul debt, no matter the cost.”
She walked out of the shop and into the snow, disappearing into the white flurries and the veil tangled between each snowflake. Patrick scrubbed a shaking hand over his face, trying to get his bearings back. When he looked over at the table they’d been sitting at, he saw it was empty.
“Fuck,” Patrick whispered quietly as he headed outside.
His phone stopped ringing before starting up again. Patrick fumbled it out of his pocket on the walk back to the SUV, Jono’s name bright on the screen, a lifeline that could never save him. Patrick’s thumb hovered over the green Accept icon before swiping over the red, sending the call to voicemail.
He needed a goddamn drink, not a conversation.
17
“Something died in my mouth,” Patrick said, not opening his eyes.
“You smell like an alleyway behind a pub,” Jono said from beside him on the bed.
“Put me out of my misery.”
“Those bloody ravens came by while you were passed out. They said Frigg wants to have a chat over breakfast.”
The thought of food had Patrick swallowing very, very carefully. “I said put me out of my misery, not make it worse.”
Gentle fingers rubbed at his temples and the throbbing there that wouldn’t go away. “Want to talk about it?”
The thought of talking about the atrocity done to his twin had Patrick struggling to a sitting position, eyes still closed, breathing heavily. Jono helped him to the bathroom, and Patrick fell to his knees in front of the toilet just in time to get sick. Nothing came out but bile and whiskey, but he didn’t feel better afterward.
“Guess that answers my question.”
Patrick listed to the side and ended up leaning against the tub. He kept his eyes shut, but that didn’t stop the world from moving. The hangover he was suffering through was caused by trying to drink his body weight in whiskey last night. Jono had eventually caught up with him at some dive bar downtown. He’d paid Patrick’s tab, driven him back to the hotel, and poured him into bed, where he’d passed out rather than slept.
“Shower, and I’ll ring the front desk for some paracetamol,” Jono said in a quiet voice.
“They call it Tylenol here,” Patrick muttered.
“Hush, you.”
The thought of moving wasn’t appealing, but Patrick knew he needed to. It wouldn’t be the first time he worked while feeling like he wanted to keel over and die, though this time it was self-inflicted as opposed to an injury.
Moving hurt, but he did it anyway, slowly peeling out of the sleep pants he didn’t remember putting on last night. Hauling himself to his feet, head pounding, Patrick turned on the shower and carefully stepped into the tub. The warm spray hit him in the face, and he flinched, the water like needles against his skin.
He tipped his head back to get a mouthful of water, swishing it around before spitting it out. It didn’t get rid of the taste of vomit on his tongue, but it would do for now until he brushed his teeth.
Patrick moved with slow motions to get clean, trying to get his bearings. He was in the process of deciding i
f he wanted to actually shampoo his hair and make his headache worse by touching his skull when the shower curtain was moved so Jono could enter the shower with him. Jono didn’t say anything, but he did take the soap and start to wash Patrick up.
Patrick let him, staring blankly at the bleached white tile surrounding them, thoughts catching on Persephone’s words from last night.
“Ethan performed a fertility rite at Westberg’s house,” Patrick said slowly, the words coming out rough. He felt every single syllable in his head, but he couldn’t keep quiet about this.
Jono’s hands stilled on his body for a couple of seconds before resuming their soaping. “Fertility? Not sacrificial?”
Patrick closed his eyes, nausea in his belly and guilt a heavy weight on his shoulders. “Hannah.”
He didn’t want to think about the implications of a spell like that, but knew he couldn’t ignore it. Pretending a problem didn’t exist was a luxury Patrick would never get.
Jono gently tugged him backward. Patrick’s shoulders settled against Jono’s chest, strong arms wrapping around him to hold him close. “How do you know?”
Patrick swallowed, wanting desperately to brush his teeth but not wanting to leave Jono’s warmth. “Hermes took me to see Persephone last night. She brought her mother.”
“Demeter?”
“Yeah. Fertility goddess. She said Freyr was involved.”
“Doubt the other Norse gods will be pleased about all this.”
The thought of reporting back to Frigg about more betrayals in their pantheon made Patrick want to crawl back into bed and never leave it.
Jono pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. “Is that why you went drinking in a blizzard?”
“Not a blizzard yet. I think Thor might have broken up bits of it. The SOA has weather witches trying to keep the worst at bay right now.”
“Pat.”
“I keep not saving her. I keep fucking up.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I—”
Jono raised his hand and gently placed it over Patrick’s mouth. His breath blew warm over the shell of Patrick’s ear when he spoke. “Listen to me, love. You were eight when Ethan tried to murder you, and you thought Hannah had died during that spell. You spent years believing she was dead. What Ethan has done is not on you, it’s on him. This is not your fault.”
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