The videographer cleared his throat. “I’ll count down to three and start the recording. I was given a list of names of attendees. Can I confirm everyone is here?”
He listed off everyone on his attendance list, and Patrick spoke up when his name was said. The videographer typed something into his laptop and then nodded.
He counted down to three and then went through his oral statement that dictated his name, the time, place, and who was in attendance. The case chosen for the record was the federal one regarding real property and the souls for rent payment. Patrick wasn’t surprised about that choice. When the videographer fell silent, Anika retrieved the chicken, grabbing it from the cage with sure hands.
She tucked the body beneath her arm, held its head to stretch out its neck with one hand, and used the machete to slit its throat. She drained its blood into the mortar, just enough to cover the bottom, before depositing the carcass back in the cage.
Patrick watched as Anika wiped the machete with a clean towel before calmly placing it against the charred left knee of the body, carving downward over the tibia. Burned flesh broke off, curling over the blade. When she had six inches of blackened, dead flesh to work with, she used the machete to carry it to the mortar and place it into the mixture.
She added several drops from two of the vials, and all of the dry ingredients. Then she picked up the pestle and mortar to grind the burned skin into the blood mixture. As she did so, the morgue grew colder, and Patrick could see his breath puff out in front of his face after half a minute. Anika kept grinding the mixture down until it thickened. Then she set the pestle aside and took a match from the box, striking it. The fire flashed a deep blood red, and she dropped the match into the mortar.
The fire that flared up from the mixture was an eerie yellow.
Anika dipped her fingers into the mortar, unbothered by the fire. When she drew her hand back, her fingers were stained with blood that she used to draw a sigil on the corpse’s chest, overwriting the ones already there.
A breeze blew through the workroom, and Patrick shivered. They were in the basement, with no windows. Anika’s magic filled the space they stood in, and Patrick was glad for his shields.
“I, Anika Dandridge, call for the dead, in the name of the living,” Anika said.
Selene stood, standing strangely still between the corpse’s feet. The psychopomp’s eyes had turned completely white, and every time it breathed, fog escaped its nose and mouth.
“I call for the spirit, whose flesh from bone anchors you to this plane. I summon the soul from its endless wandering.” She lifted her hand from the corpse, bloodied fingers spread wide, and the body followed after her like a puppet with its strings held by its master. “Rise, the nameless dead.”
It felt almost as if Patrick were walking through the veil between worlds, but the fog was restricted only to Selene, Anika, and the corpse. The pressure against Patrick’s personal shields was that of a force trying to reclaim the dead that Anika had summoned with the help of her psychopomp.
Bits of burned flesh broke off as the corpse’s arm bent, stiff fingers touching its charred chest and stiff face. Its mouth opened, and flakes of dried flesh fluttered to the exam table. The corpse’s teeth had all been broken down to the gum line post-mortem, making identification from dental records impossible. Fire had eaten through all but a few strands of muscles on the face, and Patrick could see through the mouth cavity to the other side.
“Where am I?” the corpse asked, voice rough and ruined, coming out an echo, as if from a great distance.
“In the body you left behind for the other side. You will be here only for a moment.” Anika looked at Patrick, her brown eyes glimmering with magic. “Ask your questions, one at a time.”
“What is your name?” Patrick asked, because they needed an identity for the record as much as they needed to know who had killed him.
“I…” The corpse bent its neck, what skin was left over its vertebrae splitting over bone. “My name?”
“Your name when you lived for the record,” Anika coaxed, magic in her voice, at her fingertips, her psychopomp a bridge for souls of the dead to cross over.
The corpse had no eyes, only hollow, burned-out sockets. Patrick stared at the blackened and ruined skull as the spirit of a dead man said, “My name is Dean Westberg.”
Patrick turned and ran.
18
“You’d think the one time I need a god, they’d be fucking listening for me,” Patrick snarled as he ran a yellow light. “Hermes, you bastard. Where the fuck are you?”
The sirens in the SUV rang shrilly in Jono’s ears, mingling with the noise coming from his mobile. He wished he could turn the bloody thing off.
“Do the Norse have messenger gods?” Wade asked from the back seat of the SUV.
“Not one I’d trust.”
“You don’t trust any gods.”
“Shut up and put your seat belt on. Remember what happened the last time you weren’t wearing one?”
The click of Wade’s seat belt was loud in the SUV. The sound of the call switching over to voicemail yet again made Jono grimace. “No one is picking up at the restaurant.”
Patrick glanced over at him. “It’s a private event tonight. I’m not surprised the phone is being ignored.”
Jono put his mobile away. “Yeah.”
The windshield wipers were running at top speed, but it wasn’t fast enough to clear all the snow falling down on them. The reactionary storm had gotten worse, and the blizzard the SOA’s weather witches had tried to keep at bay was now blowing at the shores of Lake Michigan. Driving was a constant fight with the wheel, snow, and traffic, though Patrick seemed to be handling it well enough.
“Fuck,” Patrick growled as he gunned it through another yellow light changing to red rather than brake for it. “I’d even take those annoying ravens right now, so long as a god actually listened.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Hermes said from the back seat.
Wade yelled in surprise, twisting against his seat belt and lashing out at the god who suddenly appeared beside him. Jono turned around in his seat in time to watch Hermes get smacked in the face by Wade’s hand hard enough the god’s head snapped back.
“Fuck,” Hermes said, voice coming out muffled. “Watch your strength, fledgling.”
“No, please, hit him again, Wade,” Patrick said.
Hermes glared at Patrick as he realigned his nose that Wade had unintentionally broken. “Do you want my help or not?”
“It’s not a question of wanting your help.”
Hermes arched an eyebrow. “I can leave?”
Jono rolled his eyes and faced forward. “Wish you would, but we need your help, so stay sat.”
Patrick white-knuckled the steering wheel and kept driving. Jono reached over to settle his hand on Patrick’s thigh. Patrick was shielded so tightly Jono couldn’t get any scent off the other man, and he didn’t like that.
“The SOA is investigating a local politician. We found a body in one of his homes, but it turns out the dead guy is actually the politician. Someone has been impersonating him, probably since last week. Whoever it is has a fundraiser going on right now they refused to cancel,” Patrick said.
“Sounds like a party,” Hermes said.
“Odin is missing, Hermes. Ethan did fuck knows what to Hannah. Westberg’s campaign manager is most likely Hel, and the person taking Odin’s spot to receive tithes tonight is Thor. Someone needs to warn him and Frigg that they’re probably the next targets.”
“You mortals invented phones for a reason.”
“Oh, fuck you. I would’ve called, but I don’t have their numbers, and no one is picking up at the restaurant. Now be a good messenger god and go warn them.”
Hermes shook his head, dyed curls flopping against his forehead. Jono never took his eyes off the god in the rearview mirror. “Wish I could, but the veil isn’t where any of us want to be right now.”
Jono felt the way
Patrick’s muscles tightened beneath his fingertips. Jono looked over his shoulder at Hermes and tried not to scowl. “What the bloody fuck do you mean by that?”
Hermes leaned forward, glancing at Jono before meeting Patrick’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “It took me hours to get here to you when it shouldn’t have.”
“Why?” Patrick demanded.
“Because another realm is pushing at the veil, trying to break through, and it is not any ruled over by my pantheon.”
“Ethan performed a fertility rite, not a sacrifice. There’s been no sightings of soultakers in Chicago.”
“Yes, but how many souls has Odin accepted as payment over the years for mortals to do business in his home away from home?”
Jono dug his fingers into Patrick’s thigh. “Drive faster, Pat.”
“Motherfucker,” Patrick ground out and pressed on the gas.
Driving in the snow above the speed limit was always a risk, but maybe the Fates were looking out for them tonight. The SUV only skidded out of the lane twice, and Patrick managed to get the vehicle under control every time without injuring anyone else on the road. The lights and sirens on the SUV cleared them a path, but the way forward wasn’t easy.
The reactionary storm had finally, fully made it to shore. Snow was dropping furiously all over the city. Jono wouldn’t be surprised if whiteout conditions happened within the next half hour. All that mattered was that they got to Au Hall before visibility dropped to zero.
Patrick was focused on the road, the snow swirling in front of them dipping through the flashing colors of the SUV’s emergency lights. Jono didn’t try to draw him into conversation, but that changed when they drove across a bridge spanning the Chicago River. Jono didn’t expect Wade to frantically smack them both on the shoulder.
“There’s something in the water,” Wade said.
Jono craned his head around, trying to peer through the snow beyond the window. He looked at Wade, who almost had his face pressed up against the fogged window.
“How the hell can you see anything in this weather?” Patrick wanted to know.
“I, uh, can feel it? It’s big.”
“Kid can sniff out gods,” Jono reminded him, still squinting through the snow.
“The kid is right,” Hermes said.
Wade scowled at Jono and Hermes, his brown eyes gold with reptilian slit pupils. “I’m not a kid.”
“Hide your eyes, Wade,” Patrick said. “Whatever is in the river can wait.”
Jono wasn’t so sure about that, but Patrick was in charge at the moment. Right now their priority was getting to Au Hall. If a monster was in the river, they’d deal with it after they saved Thor and found Odin.
They drove off the bridge, and Wade settled back down in his seat. No one spoke as Patrick maneuvered them through city streets, aiming for the stretch of road running parallel to Grant Park. When he finally turned onto South Michigan Avenue, the steering wheel slipped through his grip from the howling wind that slammed into the vehicle. Jono grabbed it and held it steady until Patrick got a better grip and straightened out the SUV.
“Thanks,” Patrick muttered.
Jono let the steering wheel go. “’Course, love.”
They’d left the wall of skyscrapers and its steel buffer behind them. The ferocity of the reactionary storm blew across the open shores of Lake Michigan with a roar that almost drowned out the SUV’s sirens.
“If we have to fight in this, I’m going to freeze,” Wade said.
“What do you mean if?” Patrick asked.
A single bright headlight flashed across the rearview mirror before disappearing. It was replaced by another, and being almost boxed in made Jono tense. A mageglobe flared into existence near Patrick’s elbow, and Jono shifted claws out of his fingertips. The roar of a motorcycle cut through the storm, and Jono flexed his fingers. Jono tracked the shadow as the dark shape on Patrick’s side of the road pulled up alongside the SUV.
“That’s Brynhildr and Dynfari,” Wade said, sounding excited. “And Eir!”
Jono forced his claws back, leaving his hands human-shaped for the moment. The valkyries followed them up the street as far as they could go until they hit a police blockade at the intersection near Au Hall. Patrick turned and pulled over to the curb. He killed the engine and tossed the keys in the glove compartment. The lights and sirens switched off, but the roar of the wind never faltered.
“Ready?” Jono asked, fingers curling over the door handle.
Patrick nodded. “Let’s go.”
Jono shoved open the SUV door and stepped out into freezing cold. Despite always running hot, the cold stung his skin. Brynhildr and Eir jumped the curb and pulled up onto the sidewalk. Jono rounded the SUV and helped Patrick get his door open so he could get out.
Both valkyries raised the visors on their helmets, Patrick’s mageglobe washing pale blue light over their eyes and the grim expressions on their faces.
“We’ve been searching for you,” Brynhildr practically yelled to be heard over the wind. “We can’t reach Thor.”
Jono closed Patrick’s door once he was out of the way. Wade and Hermes had made it out of the SUV and onto the sidewalk. Jono had to grab Wade by the collar of his sweater and hold him back when the teenager would’ve gone to greet the valkyries.
“The SOA’s necromancer raised the dead today. Body we found was Dean Westberg. Someone’s been impersonating him since probably last week,” Patrick said.
Eir turned her head, staring at Hermes. “Cousin. What are you doing here? You’ve never cared for Chicago.”
Hermes wasn’t dressed for the weather, but the cold didn’t seem to bother him. “I’ve never cared for the bridges your pantheon builds to the other side. You’ve misplaced a hole in New York City. Feel free to take it back.”
“Ginnungagap goes where it likes,” Brynhildr said.
“I thought Lucien made a deal over that void?” Patrick asked.
Brynhildr shrugged. “His mother did.”
“With Odin?”
“With Ginnungagap.”
Patrick hunched his shoulders against the wind and started walking. “Hermes said the veil feels off.”
Brynhildr swung herself off the motorcycle, not bothering with the kickstand, and took off her helmet. The motorcycle revved its engine, and she patted one of the handlebars before leaving it behind. “We cannot cross it.”
“Is that normal?” Jono asked, practically shouting to be heard.
“Crossing the veil is always difficult these days, but something else fills it along the shores here.”
“There was something in the river,” Wade said.
“Chicago shares the edge of the world with Lake Michigan.”
“It’s a lake,” Patrick said, lengthening his stride. “Not the damn Marianas Trench.”
“This is no ordinary storm, and what is building in it is no ordinary pressure,” Eir said.
“Fuck all you gods and your damn wars. If Chicago is ground zero for your Ragnarök, then I’m not getting a bonus this year because the government will pay for the property damage out of my paycheck.”
“We have tithes,” Jono reminded him.
“Shut up and let’s go crash a party.”
They were stopped at the entrance to Au Hall by someone who must have been hired to work the event. She was so bundled up that all Jono could really see was her eyes. “Private event. I need to see your invite.”
Patrick unclipped his badge from his belt and held it up for her to see. “Special Agent Patrick Collins with the SOA. Step aside.”
Her eyes widened and she hesitated, but gave ground when Brynhildr pushed past her with a confidence that could not be ignored. Brynhildr made it to the door—but that was as far as she got. The moment she touched the door handle, Brynhildr was thrown backward by a surge of magic.
Jono moved so fast the wind whistled in his ears, catching Brynhildr before she could hit the street. He grunted, feet sliding in the snow as
he went down to one knee from her weight and the force of impact. He looked down at her fiercely angry face, tasting ozone in the back of his throat.
“All right, love?” Jono asked as he helped her back to her feet.
She looked down at her burned and blackened hands, strips of skin peeled off and hanging from the sides of her palms. The remains of her gloves hung from her wrists, half of the leather burned away. Then Eir was there, grabbing Brynhildr’s wrists to get a good look at the wounds.
“Hold still,” Eir said tersely.
She covered Brynhildr’s hands with her own. Silvery magic flickered at the edges of their joined hands for a couple of seconds. When Eir pulled her hands away, Brynhildr’s were completely healed.
Brynhildr yanked the remnants of her gloves off. “That spell is god-made and not one that has ever lived in the walls of Au Hall.”
“Hel?” Patrick asked.
Brynhildr grimaced. “I am not sure.”
Patrick pulled his dagger free and flipped it to get a better grip on the hilt. “Right. Hermes is useless right now, but I’m betting you can call your sisters.”
“Fuck you, too, Pattycakes,” Hermes said, busy sending the woman who’d been guarding the door away with a push of godly suggestion.
Eir pulled out her cell phone and unlocked it, the screen bright even through the swirling snow. “On it.”
Jono only half listened to Eir as she called one of her valkyrie sisters. He approached where Patrick and Wade stood near the door. The front windows of the restaurant were covered with cloth shades, more to keep the attendees from view than it was to hide the weather. The solid wooden door was the only way in, and Jono’s skin itched from the hellish magic emanating from it.
“Hel might be inside. She was with Westberg, or whoever it is, all this week,” Patrick said.
“Maybe she was the one controlling whoever took Westberg’s place,” Jono said.
“Or whatever. They felt human every time I interacted with the guy.”
“That means nothing,” Brynhildr said from behind them.
“Yeah.” Patrick raised the dagger, pressing the point of the blade against the center of the door. Magic burned and sparked from the touch, casting a malevolent, sickly color over the matte-black blade. “Get ready.”
A Vigil in the Mourning Page 25