“Bah.” Baba Yaga floated toward the drekavacs, keen eyes riveted on her prey. “What else mortals good for?”
The drekavacs screamed a warning Baba Yaga didn’t heed. Patrick looked over his shoulder in time to see her wield her pestle with brutally precise strikes at the walking dead. Each hit broke bone and split dead flesh, leaving the drekavacs writhing on the stone floor. Several retreated through the low entrance and back into the dark.
Baba Yaga speared one of the drekavacs with her pestle and lifted the body. She cackled softly before ripping out chunks of flesh with her teeth, swallowing the bites whole.
Patrick blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, Hermes was leaning over him, staring at him through his shields.
“You know, if you wanted to lie in a grave so badly, you could’ve done it back in New York,” Hermes said around a smirk.
“Fuck you,” Patrick said, the words making his skull vibrate. He swallowed against the bile creeping up his throat.
Hermes laughed. “Think your wolf might not like that.”
The god still reached through Patrick’s shields like they didn’t exist, framing his face with warm hands. Patrick tried to jerk away, but Hermes’ grip was like a vise, even if the brush of his lips across Patrick’s forehead was cool.
Magic washed through him, electrically sharp, stealing the pain away in his head. It felt less like a benediction and more like a grudgingly given gift. Patrick batted Hermes’ hands away and got to his feet once his head stopped spinning. His shields sank back beneath his skin, an afterthought of protection he no longer needed to fuel with a ley line.
The soulbond thrummed between him and Jono. Patrick separated himself from the ley line below, magic running out of him and through Jono’s soul, draining away. He stared over Hermes’ shoulder as Baba Yaga turned to face them, the skulls in her bone mortar still glowing.
“Shall we depart?” Hermes asked her.
Baba Yaga snorted, tapping her gore-covered pestle against a row of skulls in her mortar. She had dead flesh stuck between her teeth. “My way is not your way.”
“It is tonight.”
Baba Yaga floated closer, bringing with her the scent of death that permeated the bones which once formed Peklabog’s altar. She tapped the mortar again. “Hold fast.”
Hermes grabbed onto the mortar, and Patrick could only do the same. The bones ground together as they rose to the ceiling, his feet lifting off the ground. Layers of the mortar broke off to slide over Patrick’s body. He flinched against the bloodied bones, tilting his head back to watch as they formed a circle on the ceiling. The stone crumbled, and he quickly leaned his head forward again, squeezing his eyes shut as dust and stone rained down around them.
They floated higher. Patrick cracked open one eye, watching the floor of the Salle du Drapeau fall away from his feet. Then the bones that had carved their way through stone and earth and the bare edges of the veil filled in the hole. When Patrick let go of the mortar, he landed on the dark hardwood floor of a shop.
Lights flickered on in dozens of small lanterns hanging from the ceiling, revealing shelves filled with candles, soaps, and bottles of neatly labeled potions. The windows were made of frosted glass, with no name written across it. The register on the counter was an electronic tablet setup with a wireless card reader. It looked weirdly out of place.
It smelled like herbs and oils, medicinal beneath a layer of perfume that made Patrick want to sneeze. Patrick rubbed his nose before yanking at the belt attached to his waders, stripping out of the disgusting things. He kicked them underneath the nearest table.
Baba Yaga’s mortar shrank to fit the space, but she still didn’t leave it. Her mortar settled to the ground, the bones of it grinding together. Something long and thin whipped through the air from the other side of the room. The broom smacked into her free hand, and she busied herself with sweeping up the dust of their passage.
Hermes bent over a table and poked at some of the items there. “I see you are still in business.”
“Potion selling always good.” Baba Yaga spun her broom lightning-quick to smack it across the back of Hermes’ hands. “Is not for touch.”
Hermes yanked his hands away from the table and glared at her as she floated past. “What drew you down to the Catacombs?”
Baba Yaga rapped the pestle against the mortar. “Very little forest these days to tempt lost travelers. One must eat.”
“The dead?” Patrick asked, failing to keep the disgust out of his voice. He could’ve done without watching her eat a corpse.
Baba Yaga ignored him, busying herself with sorting the extra bone from the mortar on an empty table in the rear of the shop.
Patrick pressed a hand to his chest as the soulbond drew sharp and tight. Jono was a distant presence he could sense drawing closer with every breath he took.
Find me.
The answering tug in his soul eased the tension in Patrick’s shoulders, but not by much.
“So.” Hermes wandered away from the table and back to Patrick. “I hear you lost the Morrígan’s staff.”
“We didn’t lose it,” Patrick snapped.
“You were in the same location and never got your hands on it.”
“Doesn’t mean we lost it.”
Patrick was not going to admit defeat to Hermes, even if—yes, technically—they might have lost track of the staff. And now it was in the hands of a necromancer and a god who had no right to it.
“Ilya is in possession of the staff. He’ll give it to Peklabog if he hasn’t done so already,” Patrick said.
Hermes rolled his eyes. “And whose fault is that?”
“It’s been out of the Morrígan’s hands for what? Over a century? Don’t blame me because you gods lost it first.”
“It wouldn’t be a problem if your family hadn’t done such damage over the years.”
“I’m doing what you want.”
“Not well enough.”
Patrick raked a hand through his hair, shaking loose stone dust he’d carried with him out of the Catacombs. “Peklabog had an altar down there before Baba Yaga dismantled it. He’s been accepting sacrifices.”
“He’s been keeping bodies and souls,” Hermes corrected.
Patrick linked his hands behind his neck and stared up at the ceiling. “The staff isn’t his.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t try to force it to accept him.”
“How?”
“One must use artifact to own,” Baba Yaga said as she floated back over to them on her mortar.
“It’s not part of his myth.”
Hermes tilted his head, gold-brown eyes becoming half-lidded. “Do you really think that matters when your father is busy creating his own?”
Myths had a core of truth, and while the stories sometimes changed, Patrick didn’t think they could change that much. The Morrígan was a goddess of war and fate, and the dead were her purview as much as Peklabog’s in a way. But the staff belonged to her, and Patrick didn’t believe the goddess would let anyone keep what was rightfully hers.
Not without a fight.
“If Ethan wants it, he’ll bargain with Peklabog for it. Or he’ll just take it.”
Someone banged rapidly on the front door to the apothecary shop. The soulbond settled in Patrick’s soul the way it always did when Jono was nearby, and Patrick let out a sigh of relief.
The door to the shop swung open on its own. Jono, Sage and Wade hurried inside, and the door shut behind them with a quiet click. Jono scowled at Hermes before muscling his way between the god and Patrick. Warm hands framed Patrick’s face and tilted his head up. The motion dislodged more stone dust, and he sneezed.
“What the bloody fuck happened?” Jono asked.
“The cataphile was one of Peklabog’s worshippers. Either that, or the Paris god pack was fucking with us,” Patrick said.
Hermes raised his hand, Lisette’s blood-spattered necklace hanging from one finger. Patrick was surprised it was still
in one piece. “She was his worshipper. This is one of his emblems.”
“I’ll call their dire when we get back to Nadine’s,” Sage said, practically biting out the words.
Jono stroked his thumbs over Patrick’s cheeks, studying him. “I felt your panic.”
Patrick winced. “Sorry. Drekavacs cornered us in the Catacombs. I was limited in the spells I could use. Didn’t want to risk bringing a street down on top of me.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Lisette got the drop on me. Whacked me upside the head with a leg bone. Baba Yaga got me out of there, and Hermes got rid of the concussion.”
Hermes smirked at Jono. “Need him in fighting form.”
“Fuck off,” Jono growled.
Wade, who’d been wandering the shop unsupervised and probably had pockets filled with potions at this rate, sidled back over to them. “Is there a bakery nearby? I smelled bread on the street.”
Patrick frowned. “What time is it?”
“Close to five in the morning,” Sage said.
Patrick blinked, staring up into Jono’s eyes. “Summer solstice.”
Jono nodded grimly and let him go. “What now?”
Patrick looked around at his pack and realized there was only one thing they could do. “We fight.”
“Peklabog will not be easy adversary,” Baba Yaga said as she floated back over to them, whacking Wade across the knuckles with her broom. “Is not yours.”
Wade yanked his hand away from a display of potions in shiny crystal bottles. “Ow! I was only looking.”
Baba Yaga snorted, looking down on them from the height of her mortar made out of stolen bones. “Church filled Catacombs with prayers. Dead will rise. Soon.”
“Are you sure?” Patrick asked.
“Think I not know dead?”
“That’s not what I meant. If Ilya is starting the spell now, then we’re out of time to warn people.”
Baba Yaga shrugged. “Can still fight. Have Srecha’s blessing, da? Do not waste.”
Patrick’s left hand twitched, the line of heat across his palm still sore from dragging himself through tight tunnels. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Baba Yaga let the end of her pestle hit the floor, leaning forward to balance her weight on the other end. She stared at him with eyes the color of freshly turned earth, a hunger in them that made Patrick want to reach for his dagger.
“Mortals can’t hold staff without proper magic. Magic you not have.”
“You mean my affinity for combat magic won’t be enough?”
“Think I hunger, mortal? Staff aches with it. Use what Srecha give you, but can use only once.”
“Like a wish?” Sage asked.
Baba Yaga straightened up, humming thoughtfully as the mortar swayed a little in the air. “The staff wants. You must want more.”
“Who would’ve thought you’d be so helpful without running poor Pattycakes through a plethora of tasks?” Hermes drawled.
Baba Yaga shot him an irritated look. “I know his place.”
“It’s good you know yours.”
Hermes disappeared through the veil, getting the last word in because he was a dick like that. Patrick rolled his eyes.
“Thank you for your help in the Catacombs,” Patrick said, because Baba Yaga wasn’t the fae, and it was only polite to acknowledge the immortal’s help since she hadn’t tried to eat him.
Mostly.
“Take thief out of my shop,” she grumbled.
“I’m not a thief,” Wade protested from behind a different display of potions, hands moving suspiciously.
“Funny how she didn’t specify who and you still spoke up,” Jono said.
Wade scowled at them and headed for the door. “I’m getting some bread. All the bread. And I’m not sharing.”
Jono stroked his hand down Patrick’s arm, linking their fingers together, and tugged him toward the door. “Come on. We have a fight to prepare for.”
Patrick rubbed at one eye, trying to get the dust out as he followed after Jono, not looking forward to the day ahead.
22
Jono would have much rather had a lie-in with Patrick that morning after a shitty night chasing him through Paris rather than going their separate ways because of politics. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been an option.
“Your contact was a traitor,” Jono said flatly.
Mireille blinked at him over her closed laptop on the dining room table. “So your dire accused over the phone.”
“So my co-leader had to deal with in the fucking Catacombs alone.”
“You knew the risk. I am sorry for your loss—”
“What loss? I never said Patrick was dead.”
Mireille hesitated, but Jono couldn’t smell fear on her, just confusion. “He went below.”
“Patrick is a mage. He got out of there just fine.” Jono’s jaw twitched. “No thanks to you.”
“There was no deceit in our actions. You asked for a guide. We reached out to the most well-known group of cataphiles that reside in Paris to get you one. We’ve helped them find lost members in the past, before the Catacombs closed. They owed us, and we asked that they send you someone who was familiar with the tunnels.” Mireille shook her head, never looking away from Jono. “We didn’t know of the guide’s allegiance.”
She smelled like truth and nothing else—no magic, no lies. Mireille’s scent was clean in a way Estelle’s never was and Cressida’s hadn’t been. Fenrir only confirmed her stance with an indifferent growl that echoed in the back of Jono’s mind.
Not a threat, the god said.
That didn’t make the Paris god pack allies.
“That’s a shit apology,” Jono said.
Mireille’s wolf-bright blue eyes narrowed. “We have nothing to apologize for.”
“Are we correct in assuming only the Orthodox Church of the Dead have been roaming the Catacombs lately?” Sage asked, steering the conversation away from an argument.
She’d made Rami uncomfortable when they’d arrived at the Paris god pack’s home that morning, having left her fae necklace at Nadine’s. Sage clearly gave off the scent of a werecreature, just not any kind the Paris god pack were used to crossing.
“We informed you of that the other night,” Gaspard said as he entered the dining room, sipping at some red wine.
Rami found a different spot along the wall to stand guard, keeping both his alphas within reach. The handful of other god pack members tasked to protect them didn’t move.
“So you are confirming you’ve given up parts of your Paris territory to the enemy.”
Sage’s calm words made both Gaspard and Mireille bristle.
“We admit no such thing,” Mireille snapped.
Jono stared them down. “You’ve known about the missing and the murdered and haven’t ventured into the Catacombs to fight to get them back. Sounds to me like you gave up territory.”
Gaspard set his wineglass on the table so he wouldn’t break it, anger suffusing his scent. “You don’t know anything about our situation. The French government doesn’t care about dead werecreatures. Trying to search for them only resulted in more of us dying.”
“They’re going to care about dead people at some point today if the Orthodox Church of the Dead manages to resurrect every last body buried in Paris.”
Mireille sniffed derisively. “That is an impossible feat.”
“Ilya Nazarov is a necromancer who worships a god that guides souls. He has a weapon now that will only amplify his power. The dead won’t care what you are when they rise. They’ll still try to kill you for their master.”
“Gods don’t exist,” Gaspard said.
Jono glanced at Sage, but neither said anything to that statement. Belief was subjective, and it was an argument they didn’t have time for today.
“Magic does, and Ilya’s kind will decimate Paris. You should warn your packs to be on alert.”
“We believe the Dominion Sect is also involved.
We’re not sure if they’re allied with Ilya’s church, but they’re both a threat. If you have any alliances with magic users, you may want to warn them as well,” Sage said.
Gaspard and Mireille shared an unreadable look. Eventually Gaspard blew out a heavy breath and sat on the chair beside hers.
“You are not what we expected from the English,” Gaspard said.
Jono frowned. “I’m not—”
“You are New York City’s god pack alpha, oui, we know. We see that now. We hear your warnings as well.” Gaspard looked over his shoulder at one of the god pack members standing near the door. “Maxime. Is Helene working today?”
The man nodded and said something in French Jono couldn’t follow.
Gaspard faced forward again, meeting Jono’s gaze. “Helene is Maxime’s wife. She is a policewoman and will be on duty at the Arc de Triomphe today. She can tell you some of what they know is going on in the streets.”
“Patrick has been dealing with your government already. He’s with them right now,” Jono said.
Mireille shrugged. “Politicians do not like disclosing the truth, and bureaucracy means nothing will get done quickly. The police are the eyes and ears of Paris. They may not be kind to our community, but they know and understand the threats better than politicians in their gilded seats.”
Sage slipped her mobile out of her purse and checked the time. “At this hour, the tourists will be out in force. We should get going. It’ll take time for a taxi to get here.”
“Maxime can drive you. It will be quicker,” Gaspard said.
“Thank you.”
Jono didn’t say anything, too annoyed with the Paris god pack to mean any thanks he’d give them. Noon was behind them, and Jono had been up for over twenty-four hours at this rate. He wasn’t capable of patience right now.
Jono and Sage followed Maxime out of the building to his car parked on the street. The sun was bright in a clear blue sky, morning heat filling the air. He wondered if Patrick and Nadine were making better progress than they were.
The drive to the Arc de Triomphe was made in silence. Sage spent that time on her mobile, relaying what they’d learned to the rest of the pack.
“Wade is asking if he can leave for lunch,” Sage said.
On the Wings of War (Soulbound Book 5) Page 27