A Vigil in the Mourning

by Hailey Turner

  Patrick made a face. “I think the SOA would notice if I don’t have an invoice from the hotel for the entire time I’m in Chicago. We’re trying to keep the pack under the government’s radar, remember?”

  “Probably should do with a little less city destruction, then.”

  Patrick smacked him on the chest. “Oh, fuck you. Everything’s mostly still standing.”

  “You destroyed Navy Pier,” Naomi said helpfully.

  “That’s—” Patrick broke off with a sigh. “Yeah. Can’t deny that. Is your pack okay?”

  The mirth in Naomi’s bright amber eyes faded into something more serious. “Everyone who fought with us came back alive.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Jono held up the keys. “Ready?”

  “Is Wade?”

  “My shoes are on,” Wade replied.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Jono turned toward the Chicago god pack alphas and extended his hand. “Thank you for your aid and hospitality.”

  The formality of the goodbye had Patrick belatedly wondering if he’d somehow missed any specific pack manners when he’d arrived.

  Naomi looked at Jono for a long moment before taking his hand in hers and giving it a firm shake. “Chicago will always welcome your New York City god pack, and any pack under your protection from here on out.”

  “Thank you,” Jono said with a gravity to the words Patrick would appreciate more if he weren’t so tired. He knew they’d won an acceptance here they hadn’t expected to get. “We’ll extend the same courtesy to anyone from Chicago who comes to New York and keep them safe.”

  Naomi offered her hand to Patrick, and he shook it, doing the same with Alejandro. The two Chicago god pack alphas escorted them out to the SUV, not bothering with small talk. Patrick was happy about that. He was even more happy that Jono was driving.

  “Where am I going?” Jono asked once he started the engine and Naomi and Alejandro had retreated back inside the warmth of their pack’s home.

  Patrick pulled up his GPS app and accessed the address in it from earlier in the week. He let the tinny, electronic voice fill the SUV and Jono pulled onto the street. He could hear Wade happily munching away in the back seat, having taken the bag of chips with him.

  Jono turned up the heat before reaching over and settling his hand on Patrick’s thigh. “Have you eaten anything?”

  “I’ve been fed,” Patrick muttered, closing his eyes and tilting the seat back a little.

  “Have you been seen to by a doctor? You’re moving a bit funny.”

  “Got checked out. I’m okay.”

  And he was—mostly. His soul hadn’t been damaged, and being able to tap a ley line had gone a long ways toward evening out the fight against Ethan and Hannah. The aftermath of clearing Millennium Park once he’d changed clothes had taken hours, and it was still ongoing. Patrick had reported what he could to Setsuna over an unsecured line, and then again to Dabrowski in person.

  Blaming the Dominion Sect for the appearance of Yggdrasil in Chicago would only give the SOA a pass for so long. The public would want to know why the agency hadn’t tracked the terrorist group down before the veil tore. Patrick knew a lot of finger-pointing was going to happen. The SOA was lucky the whole mess hadn’t turned into another Thirty-Day War.

  “What about where we’re going? What do you need to do there?” Jono asked.

  Patrick curled his hand over Jono’s, tucking his fingers beneath a warm palm. “I got a warrant to search the place for an item of interest.”

  “You’re going to execute a warrant by yourself?”

  “I’m bringing you, aren’t I?” Jono squeezed his hand, and Patrick leaned the seat back a little more. “You guys will stay in the car. I don’t anticipate there being a problem, but if there is, you’ll have my six.”

  “Always,” Jono promised. Silence settled between them, and Patrick was fighting off sleep when Jono spoke up again. “I’m sorry.”

  Patrick cracked open one eye, turning his head a little to look at Jono. “What?”

  “For not telling you about Fenrir taking us through the veil when I met with Lucien. I meant to, but you were going to walk out of the hotel room, and I…”

  Jono’s voice trailed off, and Patrick opened both his eyes. “I would’ve come back.”

  The words came easily to his lips. Patrick hoped Jono could smell the truth on him, because he meant it. Soulbond aside, walking away from Jono wasn’t an option. Jono’s grip on Patrick’s thigh tightened.

  “Jono.” Patrick waited until the other man looked at him. “I would have come back.”

  Patrick couldn’t say the words buried in his chest, in his heart, too used to being hurt by the people who were supposed to care about him to give up pieces of himself like that despite everything they’d gone through. Jono’s purposeful omission about what had gone down in New York still rankled, but Patrick understood—eventually—where Jono’s position had come from in deciding to keep quiet.

  Patrick didn’t like it, but he understood. He just needed some time to process it all, but it wouldn’t ever be enough to make Patrick leave Jono or the pack they were building. Nine months of being in a relationship with Jono still meant Patrick had things to learn, but one thing he was certain about was he would never leave Jono.

  “Okay,” Jono said slowly before focusing on the road again.

  “Are you guys done fighting?” Wade asked from the back seat. “Because it’s been awkward. And weird.”

  “We got you your own room,” Patrick muttered, closing his eyes again.

  “Yeah, but I can still hear you guys.”

  “What have we said about eavesdropping?” Jono said mildly.

  “That I should only do so strictly for pack purposes. But I mean, this is about the pack.”

  “Wade.”

  “Would you look at that? Someone slipped a candy bar in my pocket. I’m gonna need to eat it right away before it melts.”

  “It’s snowing.”

  “True, but you have the heater going.”

  Patrick snorted softly before letting his brain go offline for however long it took Jono to drive them to The People’s Pawn Shop. Being able to fall asleep at a moment’s notice was an old skill he hadn’t yet lost.

  Patrick jerked awake sometime later to Jono squeezing his hand and saying, “Pat. We’re here.”

  Blinking rapidly, Patrick winced at how his eyes felt like sandpaper. He peered blearily out the windshield at the lit-up windows of the pawnshop. Patrick had been awake for a day and a half at this point; he’d give almost anything for a bed right now.

  “You sure you don’t want me to go in with you?” Jono asked. “Place stinks of demon.”

  Patrick fought back a yawn. “Owner is an ifrit, and there’s CCTV everywhere. I want you to stay off camera as much as possible.”

  “No promises if he goes after you.”

  Patrick shoved open the SUV door. “Fine.”

  Patrick headed for the pawnshop, pushing open the doors and stepping inside. The heat was running full blast, and he soaked it in for the few seconds it took him to case the shop. No customers were present, but the owner was.

  The ifrit watched him approach, his gaze flicking down to the dagger strapped to Patrick’s right thigh. “You again.”

  “Me again,” Patrick said. He slipped his hand into his pocket and came up with the warrant a federal judge had only been too happy to sign. “With a warrant this time. Now play nice so I don’t have to arrest you.”

  Patrick held up the piece of paper he’d waited three hours to clear that afternoon. It took some finagling, needing approval by the SOA, the PIA, and the US Department of the Preternatural. Patrick had taken an hour-long phone call that had given him a headache only a potion could fix. The red tape had been worth it, if only because they were maybe one step closer to figuring out where the Morrígan’s staff was.

  “Let me see,” the ifrit said.

  Patrick
placed the warrant on the glass countertop of the display case between them and slid it toward the ifrit. The veins on the hand that retrieved it pulsed a little, looking like flowing lava beneath the skin for a second.

  “You’re to release whatever the owner of this receipt signed over to you,” Patrick said.

  Patrick pulled out the evidence bag with the receipt inside it, laying it flat on the countertop. He never took his fingers off the evidence bag.

  The ifrit stared at the receipt for a long moment before laying the warrant on the counter. “If I say I don’t have it?”

  Patrick left the warrant where it was. “The receipt was dated two weeks ago. The Westbergs were still within their first thirty-day cycle for repayment. You aren’t allowed to sell it.”

  “I heard Westberg is dead.”

  “His wife is still breathing, and she’s the signatory on the paperwork.” Patrick leaned forward, staring the ifrit down. “Show me the itemized invitation they left with you. Don’t make me ask again.”

  The ifrit grimaced before shoving himself away from the display case. “Follow me.”

  Patrick picked up the warrant and the evidence bag, pocketing both as he followed the ifrit into a back storeroom that doubled as an office. Patrick stood in the doorway, watching as the ifrit perused a couple of shelves before finally hauling out a slender warded box. Patrick automatically strengthened his shields.

  “The item number you were looking for,” the ifrit said.

  Patrick checked the tag affixed to the box, double-checking it against the receipt number he’d memorized. They matched.

  Patrick’s shields remained active when he accepted the warded box. No magic was triggered when Patrick touched it.

  “Unlock it,” Patrick said.

  The ifrit reached out slowly with one finger and touched the center of the box. The wards withdrew into the wood, allowing Patrick to open it.

  Inside lay a large cream-colored envelope. Patrick picked it up and set the warded box aside. When he turned the envelope over, the wax seal was broken. He traced the image of a globe pressed into the wax, bits blurred from being cracked. Patrick carefully lifted the flap, sliding free a single card, the thick paper embossed with gold and filled with magic.

  It was an invitation to a black market auction of artifacts.

  Patrick read the invitation twice more before closing up the envelope and slipping it into the evidence bag. “This was used as collateral for a set of idols. Do you know what kind?”

  The ifrit shrugged, not admitting to anything. “No.”

  Patrick thought about the pentagram in Westberg’s house, and the idols carved to carry Freyr’s prayers. He refused to think about the walled-off connection buried deep in his soul that tied him to Hannah.

  “I’ll want the paperwork on that sale.”

  The ifrit smiled, biting and hard. “Got a warrant? Because the one you have doesn’t cover your request.”

  Patrick slipped his dagger free of the sheath, flipping it around his fingers to get a better grip, never taking his eyes off the ifrit. The matte-black blade crackled with heavenly fire along the edge. “Sure. I have a warrant.”

  “That’s not a warrant.”

  Patrick stared the demon in the eye. “You can pretend the current warrant encompasses what I’m asking for, or I can do one of two things. Call up a federal judge and let her know the warrant that brought me here also uncovered some illegal business activity, which will just bring in more SOA agents, or I can show you how my dagger works.”

  The ifrit licked his lips. “That’s extortion.”

  “I call it doing my job. I think we both know what went down last night. If I let Aksel Sigfodr know you had a hand in that mess?” Patrick shrugged. “Not my problem if you turn up dead this week.”

  The ifrit dropped his gaze to the dagger and stared at it for several heartbeats before giving in. “I’ll get you the paperwork.”

  Patrick left The People’s Pawn Shop a couple minutes later, carrying the invitation and paperwork showing the Westbergs had used it as collateral to purchase a set of idols that should’ve been in a museum somewhere. He climbed back into the SUV, knocking snow off his boots before closing the door.

  Wade wrinkled his nose. “You smell like demon.”

  “Maybe keep your nose to yourself and you wouldn’t have a problem,” Patrick said.

  Jono eyed him curiously. “Everything go all right?”

  “Yeah.” Patrick stared at the envelope inside the plastic evidence bag. “Everything went fine.”

  He held in his hands what might be their first solid lead on the location of the Morrígan’s staff—Patrick just wasn’t sure what finding it would cost them.

  22

  “Won’t the cops see us?” Wade asked, nervously chewing on a thumbnail.

  Jono squinted through the fog as they came up from the pedestrian pathway into Oak Street Beach. It was cold by the water, but the heat charms Patrick had spelled into Jono’s clothes were a soft comfort. “I think the gods have that issue well in hand.”

  Jono removed his arm from around Patrick’s shoulders, taking the other man’s gloved hand instead. Patrick gave him a weary half-smile. “That’s not always a good thing.”

  “You said it yourself, Pat. We don’t need an audience for this.”

  “I’d rather be in bed than traipsing around the beach.”

  Jono couldn’t agree with him more. He hadn’t seen Patrick since the mage had left their hotel room early that morning. Tuesday had turned out to be just as busy as Monday for Patrick, while Jono and Wade had remained in the hotel. Since the SOA was taking lead on the Westberg case, and they’d gotten what information they needed about the Morrígan’s staff, Jono and Wade were leaving in the morning.

  Tonight though, the three of them had eaten dinner at a restaurant downtown, one Naomi had suggested wouldn’t discriminate against them because of Jono’s eyes. The food had been good, but rather than head back to the hotel like Jono had hoped to do, they found themselves returning to the shores of Lake Michigan. His plans for a night in had been derailed by a summons from the Norse gods, one which none of them could ignore.

  The drive north hadn’t been terrible. The reactionary storm had settled into normal bad weather that was slowly breaking up. It had stopped snowing earlier in the day, but the pileup from the storm could be seen everywhere. Jono’s feet sank into the snow that covered the sand, ice pushed by the waves building up at the edge where water met land. Lake Michigan was calmer than it had been during the fight, little eddies of water finding their way to the shore and the ice there.

  It looked peaceful, but Jono knew that peace was an illusion. They all knew what lived in the lake.

  The city skyline to the south of them was hard to see through the fog. It smelled like normal fog, not like what lived in the veil, but that didn’t stop Jono from being on edge. It was thick enough that visibility was shit until they broke into a space on the beach where the fog didn’t touch.

  In that spot, the beach wasn’t empty.

  Softly glowing witchlights hovered in the air, providing more than enough light to see by now that the sun had set in the west. The glow was reflected against the snow and the gathering of gods and immortals. The electric charge to the air made Jono fight back a sneeze.

  Hinon turned at their approach, his great, storm-colored wings folded tight against his back. “Ah, so you came after all. We are about to start.”

  “Couldn’t really say no. Did you really need us here for this?” Patrick asked.

  “It would be remiss of those who fought not to see the passing of those who fell,” Thor said from where he stood beside Frigg.

  The Norse god of thunder looked nothing like the modern-day bartender he’d been masquerading as. Gone were the winter clothes and designer suit. Tonight, Thor wore gleaming silver armor over leather clothing dyed black. Mjölnir hung from a wide belt, the edges crackling with electricity every now and then. Thor�
��s pale red hair was half braided back from his face, the rest falling loose past his shoulders.

  Standing beside Thor, Frigg wore a simple black dress beneath a gray fur cloak, the hood resting against her back. Her hair hung in waves and braids down to her waist. A crown made of twisted gold and studded with opals rested on her head.

  Brynhildr stood on the other side of Frigg, spear in one hand and a bow and arrow held in the other. The armor she wore gleamed just as brightly as Thor’s. Her pegasus stood unmoving behind her in the snow, his wings furled. The majority of surviving valkyries who had fought to help retrieve Odin’s body were arrayed in a half circle facing Lake Michigan.

  Heimdallr stood at the shoreline, sword strapped to his back, one hand resting on the prow of a small wooden boat draped with greenery and flowers. Eir was there as well, standing beside another boat bearing the body of Töfrandi. Several other valkyries stood next to the remaining boats bearing the bodies of the dead.

  The waters of Lake Michigan were a vast darkness. The stillness found there was eerie after the rough weather the last few days.

  “Is Oniare still in there?” Wade asked.

  Hinon shrugged, his wings spreading a little with the motion. “I did not slay the beast. What wounds we dealt him will heal in time. He will return, as he always does. That is the way of our story.”

  “And Odin?” Patrick asked, staring at the boat Heimdallr stood by.

  Jono tightened his grip on Patrick’s hand, ignoring the way Fenrir growled through his mind.

  “This was not our Ragnarök,” Frigg said.

  “Odin is still dead, and Loki escaped with his spear. His ravens told me to kill him, and I shoved my dagger into his heart.”

  Frigg turned her head to look at Patrick before her gaze settled on Jono. “Loki will pay for his betrayal, as he always does. Fenrir’s teeth never touched my husband. This was no Ragnarök, despite all efforts to make it so.”

  Jono half expected Fenrir to claw his way to control, but the god remained silent. Jono blinked, vision wavering for a second before it settled. Frigg smiled at him, the curve of her mouth secretive in a way Jono knew not to trust.