Smithfield Market was filled with buyers from all walks of life that lived in the shadows of the preternatural world or skirted its edge. From what Patrick could see, people didn’t mingle so much as give each other wide berths. They stuck to their own groups—human, vampire, fae, magic users, and more—making small talk when they had to. Mostly, everyone browsed the items on offer for the auction.
The small alcoves that filled either side of the wing Rossiter had commandeered to display the auction catalogue usually showed off artwork and sold souvenirs during the day. Tonight, the individual metal security gates were nowhere to be seen. Each counter was draped in black velvet, with a single item of interest held up for prospective buyers to see behind magical shields. Buyers asked questions, making notes in the small leather-bound notebook they’d been issued.
Patrick wanted to go look for the Morrígan’s staff, but the second he took a half step away from Lucien’s Night Court, Einar grabbed him by the elbow with bruising fingers.
“Stay,” the tall vampire hissed at him in a low voice.
Patrick’s first instinct was to argue, but he bit his tongue against the urge. He had a role to play, and he had to remember that adoration of Lucien’s Night Court would get them further than murder.
They were at the auction for one item only, but Lucien made a show of being interested in every object they passed in their meandering walk through the market wing. A scimitar from the ninth century whose gold hilt was inlaid with jewels came with a metal tassel that connected to a thurible. The thurible had been added later, on a different continent according to the written out history pinned to the velvet drape. The small holes in the incense burner had been filled in to trap the djinn said to reside in its golden depths.
“Three wishes to its new owner,” the auction aide said with a wide smile, holding the scimitar in one hand and the thurible in the other. “Guaranteed wealth if you so desire.”
Carmen made a show of writing down the auction number of the scimitar, but nothing else that Patrick could see. He noticed more that wherever Lucien’s curiosity took them, the people nearby paid as much attention to Lucien as they did the items up for sale.
A cluster of Middle Eastern men in white robes and keffiyehs were having a rapid-fire conversation in Arabic in front of a display housing a shimmery Konrul egg, according to its auction history. Patrick didn’t speak Arabic, and what bits of the language he used to know while in the Mage Corps had fallen by the wayside.
The youngest man with a neatly trimmed, thick black beard peeled away from his group and approached Lucien. He looked to be in his midthirties, with brown eyes and a smile that wasn’t friendly.
“Lucien,” the man said, greeting the master vampire like an old friend. “I hear you have finally left the Gulf states for American cities.”
Lucien smiled, fangs pricking his lips. “Don’t believe all the rumors you hear in your country, Kalid. Half are spun by your subordinates, and we both know the lies you tell.”
Patrick didn’t get any hint of magic off Kalid, nor any hint of recognition beyond mundane human. He seemed to be exactly what he appeared as—a wealthy businessman looking to buy rare, collectible magical items. Though if he was on a first-name basis with Lucien, his business dealings were less aboveboard than his public persona indicated.
“What brings you to the auction?”
“What do you think?”
Kalid’s attention shifted to Carmen, gaze undressing her from head to toe. “I think Carmen still has expensive tastes.”
Carmen laughed throatily, the hint of sexual pheromones drifting away from her not enough to incapacitate. Patrick was just glad he had his shields up.
“I do have expensive tastes,” Carmen purred, extending her hand to Kalid. “You still can’t afford me, but I do love that you try.”
Kalid took her hand in his and kissed the back of it, fingers caressing her wrist. “A man can hope.”
Carmen slid free of Lucien’s hold to kiss Kalid full on the mouth, putting on a show for everyone to see. Lucien let her, watching them both with shrewd black eyes. As dedicated as they were to each other and the business empire they kept building, Patrick knew Carmen needed to feed on more than just one undead vampire and some willing human servants.
“If you’re open to doing business afterwards, you know the avenues to reach us,” Carmen said after she broke the kiss.
Carmen went to cuddle up to Lucien again, who smirked at Kalid before walking away. The rest of the Night Court followed, with Patrick and Spencer ending up in the middle of a circle of vampires. Fatima had disappeared, probably scouting ahead. Playing their roles of human servants meant they were overlooked by the people in power walking the length of the market wing. It also meant they were restricted in where they could go, which wasn’t helpful.
“See anything you like?” Spencer asked innocently enough as they walked past another display.
The cursed gold necklace draped over velvet made Patrick pick up the pace a little. “Not yet.”
There were close to thirty objects up for sale tonight, but as they neared the end of the market wing and its many displays, Patrick had yet to get eyes on the Morrígan’s staff. He chewed his bottom lip, hoping the months of intelligence gathering that had brought them here hadn’t been wrong.
As they neared the end of the wing, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Patrick turned his head, staring at the bright golden thread a beautiful woman was weaving from a drop spindle.
She sat on a tall stool, her white gown like starshine in a night sky and as nebulous as moonlight. Her white-blonde hair fell straight to her hips, so thick it looked as if it should weigh her head down. But she held herself tall and proud, shoulders thrown back, staring right at Patrick with eyes the color of a freshwater lake never touched by man—deep and fathomless and filled with endless shadows.
She smiled, pale pink lips quirking at the corners as she dropped the spindle once again, fingers coaxing the golden thread straight and true. The pile of coarse thread resembled a cloud of gold on her lap and it glittered brightly beneath the lights.
Patrick couldn’t look away. All of his hair stood on end, the taste of ozone thick on his tongue.
“Well met, Patrick,” the goddess said, her voice echoing as if from a great distance.
Time seemed frozen around them, the clusters of buyers caught midstep, midword. Spencer was a rigid statue beside him, gaze unseeing. Patrick swallowed thickly before easing around his friend and sidling between two vampires to get to the display.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“A cousin of the Norns.”
He couldn’t hide his flinch at the realization one of the Fates sat before him, weaving a future he knew wasn’t a sure thing. “I don’t know your name.”
“You may call me Srecha.”
An old god, from an old religion whose worshippers had mostly faded into history long ago. Those who remembered the Slavic pantheon were few and far between these days. The Fates in all their multitudes had chosen their sides in this fight. Patrick just wasn’t sure whose side Srecha was on, especially since she had faces for both.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Srecha added more of the raw material to the thread she was spinning, fingers smoothing out the thickness of the strand. “I want what my cousins want. What we all desire in this day and age. An end to mortal arrogance.”
“If you mean Ethan, I’ve already got my marching orders.”
“Your paths will cross eventually.”
“They already have. More than enough times for my liking.”
Srecha smiled slightly, hands gliding over the golden thread she’d spun. She twisted her fingers around it, raising it to her mouth as the spindle came to rest against her chest. She cut it with teeth that glittered like diamonds, severing the thread in two. The golden strands fluttered between her hands, and she unwound the end of it from the spindle. What remained was a
n unfinished thread, cut sharply at one end, tufted slightly at the other.
“Prayers are our livelihood. Some of us forget they should be given freely,” Srecha said. “Give me your hand.”
Patrick made a fist, not wanting to give her anything, but he found himself obeying anyway. Leaning over the counter draped in velvet, he extended his arm toward Fate, and she took his hand with an implacable grip he’d never been able to break.
“We gods are never truly forgotten as long as one person speaks our name and remembers us.” Srecha traced the lines on his palm with cold fingers, the golden thread tickling his skin. “Memory can be long-lived, so long as it lives.”
“Is that what you want?”
Srecha smiled, and Patrick could see eternity in her eyes. “We live because you mortals do not forget. We are not gone when our names fall from your lips. Take my blessing and remember us when it matters.”
Patrick blinked, and before his eyes fully closed, her face changed. A flicker of the light maybe, or a trick of the mind, but Srecha’s beautiful face aged a lifetime in an instant, becoming wrinkled and old, with bloodshot eyes and crooked teeth.
The thread burned white-hot against his palm, and Patrick yanked his hand free of the goddess’ grip, taking a step back. As soon as contact was broken, his ears popped, and everyone started moving again. The display area he stood in front of was empty.
Patrick blinked at where Srecha had once sat, spinning a future only Fate could weave, the only warm spot on his body the line where her golden thread had touched his skin. When he looked at his palm, the skin in that area was an angry red color, and it hurt like a burn.
“Hey,” Spencer said, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “There you are. The auction is going to start in ten minutes.”
Patrick jerked his head around, noticing that the auction staff in the nearby display areas were beginning to pack up their items in warded boxes. Lucien and Carmen were a few meters away, staring at him expectantly. He didn’t think he’d been taken beyond the veil, but the goddess had done something to shift everyone’s attention and sense of time so their conversation could happen.
Spencer hauled him around, and Patrick went. “You wandered off. You know Lucien doesn’t like that.”
Patrick curled his fingers over the burn on his palm. “Sorry. I got distracted.”
They stepped back inside the circle of vampires. Carmen raised an eyebrow at him in a silent question, but Patrick only shook his head. His conversations with the gods weren’t something they needed to know about.
“Let’s find our seats,” Lucien said.
As they moved with the crowd out of the wing, a distinctive laugh Patrick remembered from the challenge ring in Farningham reached his ears. He craned his head around, gaze skimming over the crowd, until he saw the riot of blonde curls belonging to Cressida.
“Oh,” Spencer said in a mild voice that belied the way he grabbed Patrick’s hand that throbbed with the burn and held on tight enough to hurt. “That’s not good.”
“What’s not good?” Carmen asked.
“Bad seafood for dinner. I need to use the toilet.”
Spencer hauled Patrick out of the circle of vampires, who let them go, though Einar followed after them to keep up appearances. Lucien wasn’t known for letting his human servants out of sight alone when surrounded by potential enemies.
The toilets were located in the cross-corridor where they’d come in. Spencer didn’t let go until they were in the men’s room. Einar followed them inside, leaning against the door to keep anyone else out. Fatima passed through the door right between Einar’s legs, tail lashing in displeasure as she went to Spencer’s side.
“No magic,” Patrick warned.
Spencer ran a hand through his hair. “Fatima can keep people from listening in without triggering the spell hiding the building.”
Patrick looked down at Fatima. The psychopomp yawned and licked her sharp teeth, golden eyes half-lidded. “If you’re sure.”
“When you said the god pack alpha werewolf had a demon in her soul, I thought that would be an easy break to do,” Spencer said in a low voice. “Easy isn’t happening.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not just any demon. It’s powerful and it’s old, and the only ones I’ve ever seen like that in the mortal world usually belong to the ruling class of the hell everyone’s most familiar with these days.”
“Have you ever exorcised a demon like that from a soul?”
Spencer grimaced. “Once. It didn’t go well.”
“For the demon?”
“For me.”
“But you exorcised it, right?”
Spencer drew in a deep breath and let it out in an explosive sigh. “Yes.”
“Okay.” Patrick dragged his hand down his face, sucking air through his teeth. “And the London god pack is handling security for the fucking auction. I don’t like what that implies.”
“Is she the one who fucked Rossiter?”
“Yeah.” Patrick looked over his shoulder and met Einar’s gaze. “I’m sure there’s some kind of code word or phrase you guys hashed out for something like this?”
“We aren’t new to bad business deals,” Einar said. “We’re going back to Lucien.”
Fatima yawned again and twitched her tail. Spencer leaned down to scratch between her ears. “We’re clear.”
They left the toilets, Einar leading the way back to the others. Lucien studied them with narrowed black eyes as they approached.
“Are you done?” Lucien asked.
“Carmen should’ve worn the sapphires,” Einar said blandly. “The human servants agree.”
Lucien’s expression didn’t change—no one’s did—but Patrick knew the warning had been received.
“Sapphires don’t match my eyes,” Carmen replied.
“They match mine,” Spencer muttered.
Patrick made a mental note to remind Spencer later that Lucien was the enemy, despite being their ally tonight, and that fucking the enemy was not allowed.
Lucien turned on his heels. “Move.”
They followed his lead to the opposite wing, where white folding chairs had been set up in multiple rows. Each chair carried a folded name card on its seat, indicating which invited group it belonged to. Lucien’s was at the very front, his name the only one written out, while all the other cards merely listed Guest of Lucien. On Lucien’s seat was a small plastic sign with a number on it that would be used to indicate his interest on items up for sale.
Carmen always sat on Lucien’s right, but Patrick made sure to take the seat on the other side. Their group took up two rows in a small cluster. While they were in the front, they were farther from the center aisle and the podium on the temporary stage, but closer to the side aisle and some of the werecreatures acting as security.
The seats in the row opposite theirs were eventually taken by a group led by a man whose magic made Patrick’s stomach temporarily roil. He tried not to be obvious about staring, but it was impossible not to look and match that face to the memory of the one he’d seen in the WSA briefing.
Ilya Nazarov was tall and broad-shouldered, with slicked back dirty-blond hair and a face hollowed out from magic. His fingers and thumbs were adorned with gold rings that burned with black magic to Patrick’s senses, though the gold chain necklaces he wore seemed plain enough. The people with him took their seats, but their attention never left Ilya as the necromancer sauntered over to Lucien with an arrogance Patrick wanted to punch off his face.
“I’ve heard much about you, Lucien,” Ilya said with a smile. His Russian accent wasn’t as thick as Patrick expected it to be, most likely a byproduct of his under-the-radar travels.
Lucien didn’t acknowledge Ilya for half a minute. When he finally tipped his head back, the pause was a calculated dig of disrespect that Ilya couldn’t miss. “Did I say you could talk to me?”
Ilya’s smile never wavered. “I am the Patriarch of Souls for t
he Orthodox Church of the Dead. I talk to whoever I want.”
Lucien looked him up and down with obvious disdain. “If I had wanted an introduction, it would have happened.”
“I think our desires might align. If you are staying in Europe beyond the auction, perhaps we can meet. I’m sure there’s favorable business to be had between my Church and your Night Court.”
“I’m not interested in your preaching, necromancer.”
“Our god could save you.”
Lucien leaned forward, menace in every line of his body. “I don’t need saving.”
Ilya stared at him for a few seconds before casually shrugging off Lucien’s refusal. “Everyone needs saving. Even the undead.”
Lucien said nothing to that, merely stared Ilya down until the necromancer left. Patrick watched the necromancer walk back to his seat and lean in to whisper with one of his fellow worshippers. Patrick wished he could’ve got a picture of the man. He hoped CCTV cameras were working outside the building, but even if they were, he didn’t know if the WSA would share any information after they realized they’d been deliberately misinformed about the auction date.
Patrick looked around at everyone seated for the auction, wondering which of the present buyers belonged to the Dominion Sect. Not knowing was worrisome. He didn’t see Ethan or Zachary Myers, but if those two were remaining Stateside, they’d have sent someone else in their stead.
A flurry of movement at the back near the cross-corridor caught his eye. Patrick watched as Dillon Rossiter started down the center aisle, trailed by several auction aides carrying items of interest. Rossiter was dressed in a flashy dove gray business suit, collar open, and a royal purple silk scarf wrapped around his neck rather than a tie.
In person, Rossiter gave off an aura of cold confidence that didn’t speak of the Seelie Court. Patrick tried not to hunch down in his seat as Rossiter took the stage, pressing his thumb against the filigree ring on his middle finger. He hoped Brigid’s magic would be enough.
Werecreatures staggered themselves down the side aisle and in front of the stage, though only Cressida was allowed on the stage itself. She stood near the stairs, off to the side and out of the way of the auction aides busy displaying the first item up for bid. Cressida scanned the crowd, and Patrick hoped they didn’t stand out in the front row.
On the Wings of War (Soulbound Book 5) Page 19