On the Wings of War (Soulbound Book 5)

by Hailey Turner

  “What?” Lucien demanded.

  “We’re going with you to the auction. The government doesn’t trust you, and I don’t trust you. One rule of the bargain was you get oversight, and I’m your fucking oversight,” Patrick said.

  “Buyers with business ties to the Dominion Sect have been warned you’re in town. The auction doesn’t happen if you walk in with me. If you want that staff, you’ll do things my way.”

  “What makes you think Ethan hasn’t ratted you out to them as well?”

  “Because I play any and every side when it suits me, and everyone knows that. Denying me entrance won’t go over well for their future financial base.”

  Patrick supposed if someone owned a criminal empire as vast as Lucien’s, they could issue a threat that would make everyone think twice about cutting them out.

  “Spencer and I will go. Everyone else will stay outside the venue but ready to come help if needed.”

  “You called in the soulbreaker?” Lucien asked, sounding interested in a way Patrick didn’t like.

  “Ethan and whoever is at the auction won’t recognize Spencer. I’ll figure out a way to hide myself.”

  “The protective wards that secure these kinds of locations will strip you of your magic. You don’t have any spell that can keep you hidden.”

  “You aren’t going alone. That’s not happening.”

  “I get diplomatic immunity to move freely in the United States whether or not you get the staff. My terms were based on aid, and your government agreed. If you lose the staff because you couldn’t hide your face, that’s not my problem.”

  Lucien ended the call, and the silence in Patrick’s ear made him scowl. Jono frowned, brows drawn together worriedly, having obviously listened in to the conversation. “What now? I hate to agree with that fucker, but he has a point. You and your ginger hair are a bit too recognizable.”

  Patrick glared down at his phone. “Spencer will still be unrecognizable. He fought in the Thirty-Day War, but never with the Hellraisers. The Mage Corps needed his help against the soultakers and zombies. I don’t think Ethan has any current information on him.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  Patrick sighed, scrolling through his contacts. “I know.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Rossiter is fae. If he’s setting the wards, then we’ll need fae magic to get us through.”

  “What if someone else is setting the spells?”

  “We’ll still need a strong defense.” Patrick’s thumb paused over the name Smooth Dog in his contacts, and he pressed the icon. Holding the phone to his ear, he listened to it ring a couple of times before it picked up. “It’s Collins. Line and location are secure.”

  “Line and location are secure,” Captain Gerard Breckenridge echoed in turn. Patrick’s old team captain sounded on high alert, but if he was answering the phone, then it was safe to do so.

  “Are you on leave?”

  “Forty-eight hours R and R. I hear you’re in London.”

  “Not the vacation I wanted. They sent us Spencer.”

  “Dead Boy got the call up?”

  “We’re dealing with the Orthodox Church of the Dead. I wanted decent backup.”

  “Fair enough. I haven’t received new orders, so why are you calling?”

  “Lucien is carrying the invitation to the auction. The Dominion Sect knows I’m in town, which means Lucien’s criminal contemporaries probably know as well. The auctioneer is fae, and I was hoping you or Órlaith had some artifacts with glamour we could use.”

  Gerard made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. “Órlaith is in Dublin. I’ll see what we can do.”

  “Dublin?” Patrick asked, sounding surprised. “She’s not with you?”

  “Cernunnos asked for her aid in a rite during Beltane. She opted to stay through summer.”

  Patrick’s mouth twisted. “Is she preparing for your return?”

  Gerard sighed. “Something like that.”

  Gerard wasn’t his real name. As the immortal Cú Chulainn, he lived under a human alias far from Ireland’s shores. He’d made a promise to the Cailleach Bheur to return to his ancestral home once the Morrígan’s staff was found and bring with him the prayers and stories that sustained him. The fae hoped he could spearhead their resurgence, but Patrick knew Gerard only hoped to keep their memory alive in these modern times.

  Some days, that was all you could do.

  “If I have to fly to Dublin, we have time. The auction is scheduled to take place Sunday.”

  “I’ll call Órlaith and tell her to reach out to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Stay safe. Stab Lucien in the back for me.”

  “I’d do it for myself first.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Gerard ended the call, and Patrick shoved his phone into his pocket. “Now we wait.”

  “I like his idea,” Jono said.

  “Having Órlaith call us rather than go through him?”

  “No. Stab Lucien.”

  Patrick laughed, allowing himself to be reeled in for a kiss. Jono tasted like the beer he must have been drinking before Patrick arrived. When they broke apart, Jono reached up to press his wrist against Patrick’s throat, rubbing their pack scent into his skin.

  “Did the WSA ask about me?” Jono wanted to know.

  “Unfortunately, yeah. They got your identity off the CCTV, but Nadine made it seem like you were our criminal informant we brought along, which was why we were together.”

  “Can’t be much of an informant if I’ve been gone for years.”

  “That’s what Albert said. It’s still the story we’re sticking to.”

  Jono nodded. “All right.”

  Wade leaned into the room, holding himself up by gripping the doorframe. “Room service is here. Come quick or I’m eating your dinner.”

  He disappeared, but Patrick knew that wasn’t an idle threat. Patrick slipped his hand into Jono’s. “Let’s go eat.”

  A quiet dinner in was something they all needed. Patrick had a feeling the weekend wasn’t going to be easy.

  14

  The Embassy of the Seelie Court was located across from Kensington Gardens, near the Lancaster Gate Underground Station. On a dreary Saturday morning, Patrick opted to take the Underground rather than drive, leaving the car behind for Jono’s use if he needed it.

  Hiding his presence on a semi-crowded train was easier than weaving through traffic. The werecreatures Cressida had parked outside their hotel hadn’t been aware of his departure, but they would’ve been if he’d had to wait for the valet to bring the car around. If anyone had managed to follow him, Patrick hoped he’d lost them in Oxford Circus.

  Still, Patrick was on high alert as the train rattled toward its destination, the automated computer announcing “The next station is Lancaster Gate. This is a Central Line train to Ealing Broadway via Nottingham Hill Gate.”

  The train rolled into the station with a squeal of brakes and the echoing rumble of the engine, the Underground’s ancient protective wards flashing at the corners of Patrick’s eyes through the windows. Patrick stood, grabbing hold of the railing overhead as he swayed with the motion of the train car. It braked to a stop, and the doors opened. He exited with everyone else, following the weekend summer crowd to the elevators that were the only way out if one didn’t want to ascend twenty-six staircases.

  It took a couple of minutes to make it onto the elevator and then out of the station, stepping back into weak sunlight. The weather was mildly warm, and his leather jacket was enough without needing to activate either the heat or cold charms embedded in it. He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and turned right, walking down Bayswater Road.

  The embassy was centrally located between the Lancaster Gate and Queensway station. The walk there was shaded by an abundance of trees, with cars and buses driving past him on the left. The numerous white row houses were eventually broken up by a single bui
lding separated by a brick wall with steel spikes set into the top. The open gate Patrick approached wasn’t made of iron, but steel, the metalwork of it twisted into wards he wasn’t familiar with.

  The magic around him had a different feel to it, nothing like a human’s. The fae guards on duty might’ve been wearing suits, but the halberds in their hands had probably taken more negotiation than Patrick’s dagger to be allowed in London—or they just didn’t give a fuck and had brought them anyway.

  It was probably the latter.

  The fae guards watched his approach and didn’t bar him from entering. Patrick gave them a polite nod on his way up to the embassy’s entrance. He hauled the heavily warded door open and stepped inside a building that was like all the other government-type buildings in London. The only difference was the number of plants in the place.

  Ivy covered the wood paneling from planters that had overwhelmed free-floating shelves nailed to the wall. Potted trees and flowers took up space in the lobby. Patrick fought back a sneeze, eyes watering, as he approached the receptionist desk. The woman seated there wore modern clothes, her hair done in trendy waves, though the pointed ears peeking through them and the yellow eyes the shade of a buttercup proved she wasn’t human.

  “You’re expected,” the fae said before Patrick could even open his mouth. “Please follow your escort.”

  Patrick looked up at where she pointed. A pair of colorful wings pried itself off the ceiling, coalescing into the tiny figure of a pixie who fluttered down to their level. The giggling fae darted around Patrick’s head, making him almost cross-eyed from its antics. He just hoped it wouldn’t bite him.

  “This way,” the pixie said in a soft, tinkling voice.

  The pixie flew off, and Patrick followed after it. The inner workings of the fae embassy would remain a mystery, as every door he passed was shut tight. He couldn’t hear anything but his own footsteps on the hardwood, the sound muffled by the forest grown out of pots and vases in every hallway he was led down.

  Eventually, they came to an intricately carved door on the third level, guarded by a pair of fae in armor rather than three-piece suits. The pixie flew off, leaving Patrick standing awkwardly outside. He watched it go before returning his attention to the door and the guards, wondering if he was supposed to knock. Before he could try, the door opened, and the person blocking the way greeted him with a smirk.

  “What,” Patrick bit out, “the fuck are you wearing?”

  Hermes reached up to pat the ugly white wig perched on top of his head, a couple of dyed green curls peeking out from beneath it. “When in Rome, as they say.”

  “We’re in London.”

  “Then god save the queen.”

  “Someone needs to save you from your shitty taste in clothes.”

  Instead of jeans and a T-shirt, Hermes wore royal purple velvet breeches and matching coat and vest, with silver stockings and a white dress shirt that wouldn’t look too out of place in today’s business world. Hermes looked like he had walked out of a painting depicting court life in the 1770s, except no artist would ever be able to capture the unearthly look in his gold-brown eyes.

  “I’m not here to meet with you,” Patrick said.

  Hermes smiled. “You are now.”

  “This is Seelie Court territory, so long as I stand here. Mind your place, Hermes,” Órlaith said as she pushed the door open wider. She graced Patrick with a smile that lit up her whole face. “Hello, Patrick.”

  The Summer Lady of the Seelie Court was as gorgeous as Patrick remembered, and her laughter had a joy to it that had been missing on the Skellig Islands back in December.

  “Órlaith.” Patrick extended his hand for a shake before it was batted aside so she could hug him. “Oof.”

  She smelled like summer flowers blooming after a rainstorm. Her slim frame belied the otherworldly strength he could feel in her arms. Patrick pulled away after a moment, taking her in, from the mass of her long, wavy red-orange hair to her pale blue sundress and the trendy white sneakers she wore. A thin gold circlet was twisted through her hair, the glittering leaves and flowers there made out of jewels any collector would kill to own. Her eyes were summer-sky blue shot through with gold, inhuman in color, but the kindness in her gaze put him at ease.

  “What are you doing hanging out with the likes of him?” Patrick asked, jerking his head in Hermes’ direction.

  “Diplomacy.”

  “Shame.”

  “I’m beside myself with grief at our severed friendship,” Hermes drawled, wig sitting askew on his head.

  “We aren’t friends,” Patrick retorted.

  “Gentlemen,” Órlaith warned before gesturing at the huge sunlit office behind her. “Come, there’s tea.”

  Patrick sighed. “Great. More tea.”

  Órlaith smiled at him, eyes bright with a fondness Patrick didn’t think he deserved, not after what Ethan had put her through over winter. “We’re in England, therefore, we drink tea.”

  “I’m American. We tossed it into the harbor.”

  “Heathen,” Hermes coughed under his breath.

  Patrick flipped him off. “Fuck off.”

  Órlaith shot them both a quelling look that seemed to channel her grandmother enough that Hermes kept his mouth shut. Patrick followed her into a palatial office that could’ve doubled as a throne room if someone—Wade—stole the pair of seats out of Buckingham Palace. Thankfully, the Staterooms weren’t open to tour yet.

  “How was your flight?” Patrick asked.

  Órlaith shrugged. “It was fine. I brought what you requested over with me.”

  She went to sit on the love seat by the windows overlooking Kensington Gardens. The low table there was set for tea, and a rosewood box sat near the teapot. A platter of cookies and one of small sandwiches were arranged within arm’s reach.

  “I hope you didn’t declare it for Customs,” Patrick said as he took a seat beside her. Hermes sprawled on the armchair opposite them, slinging one leg over the armrest.

  “I arrived through diplomatic channels.”

  “Handy.”

  “I hear Lucien asked for a similar sort of protection.”

  Patrick made a face. “The government agreed to the bargain.”

  “Compromise is never easy, but needed in a situation like this. We all do what we must.”

  “Patrick knows all about our needs,” Hermes drawled.

  Patrick glared at the messenger god, watching as the centuries-old clothing melted away into the modern-day outfit Hermes usually preferred—ripped jeans, a well-worn band T-shirt, and a battered pair of Doc Martens.

  Órlaith reached for the teapot and poured out three cups, doctoring hers with milk and sugar. Patrick did the same, breathing in the scent of Earl Grey. It wasn’t coffee, but it would do. Hermes twirled his finger in the air and his teacup rose off the table and floated to him. He plucked it out of the air and sat up far enough to sip at it.

  “Hospitality?” Patrick asked.

  “Not for you.” Órlaith smiled, lips curving up without any of the malice Patrick was used to seeing in some of her people’s faces. “Never for you.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Cú Chulainn is rarely wrong about the people who fight beside him. You and yours have already proven your loyalty. We would not have the alliance with you if that wasn’t the case.”

  Patrick knew better than to say thank you to the fae, even one who would one day marry his friend. He inclined his head in a silent acknowledgment of her statement instead. “So what did you bring me?”

  “Something to save your ass since you can’t do it yourself,” Hermes said, stealing a cookie off the platter and eating it in two bites.

  Órlaith rolled her eyes while the other god pretended not to see. “Ignore him.”

  “I’ve tried. He’s like a cockroach that won’t go away,” Patrick said.

  Órlaith laughed. “True.”

  “I’m just here to ensure you do your job
, Pattycakes,” Hermes said.

  Patrick flipped him off. “I don’t need your help for that.”

  “Seems like you do. I hear the Orthodox Church of the Dead wants the Morrígan’s staff. Their Patriarch of Souls has loud prayers.”

  Patrick frowned. “Do they pray to you?”

  Hermes snapped his fingers, and another cookie appeared between them. He dipped it in his tea before popping it in his mouth to chew. “I guide the dead, but I’m not the only one who does so. Those prayers the Patriarch of Souls shepherds aren’t for me.”

  “Then who are they for?”

  “Peklabog.”

  It was one thing to know a necromancer wanted the Morrígan’s staff, quite another to realize the human was only a proxy for a god of the Slavic underworld.

  “Peklabog has to know we would go to war in his realm to retrieve the staff,” Órlaith said.

  Hermes shrugged and sat up, swinging his leg back around to put both feet on the floor. “Medb is selling the staff for money instead of prayers. She isn’t the only one looking to make a killing off it.”

  “Do you think he’s in London?” Patrick asked.

  “Hard to say. Peklabog goes where he likes, much as I do.” Hermes set his teacup on the table and stood, bowing extravagantly to Órlaith. “Until we meet again.”

  Hermes left through the veil, taking all the cookies on the platter with him. Patrick looked at the empty platter and sighed. “I’d say he’s worse than Wade, but no one is worse than Wade when it comes to stealing cookies.”

  “The fledgling is sweet,” Órlaith said.

  “The fledgling is a walking bottomless pit for a stomach.” Patrick gulped down some more tea, wishing it was coffee. “What do you have for me?”

  “Rings. Two of them. Brigid placed the glamour, and we will want them returned after use. These are artifacts we do not want mortals to have.”

  “I’ll make sure they get back to you.”

  “Good.”

  Órlaith set her teacup down and reached for the box, placing it between them on the love seat. Opening it revealed a pair of silver filigree rings that burned with magic to Patrick’s senses.