Summary:
When the gods come calling, you don’t get to say no.
Patrick Collins is three years into a career as a special agent for the Supernatural Operations Agency when the gods come calling to collect a soul debt he owes them. An immortal has gone missing in New York City and bodies are showing up in the wake of demon-led ritual killings that Patrick recognizes all too easily from his nightmares.
Unable to walk away, Patrick finds himself once again facing off against mercenary magic users belonging to the Dominion Sect. Standing his ground alone has never been a winning option in Patrick’s experience, but it’s been years since he’s had a partner he could trust.
Looking for allies in all the wrong places, Patrick discovers the Dominion Sect’s next target is the same werewolf the Fates themselves have thrown into his path. Patrick has been inexplicably attracted to the man from their first meeting, but desire has no place in war. That doesn’t stop Patrick from wanting what he shouldn’t have. Jonothon de Vere is gorgeous, dangerous, and nothing but trouble—to the case, to the fight against every hell, and ultimately, to Patrick’s heart and soul.
In the end, all debts must be paid, and Patrick can only do what he does best—cheat death.
A Ferry of Bones & Gold is a 115k word m/m urban fantasy with a gay romantic subplot and a HFN ending.
Summary:
You can’t bargain with death if you’ve already sold your soul.
Special Agent Patrick Collins has been reassigned by the Supernatural Operations Agency to New York City. Navigating his new relationship with Jonothon de Vere, the werewolf he’s now soulbound to, is nothing compared to dealing with territorial disputes between the vampires and werecreatures who call the five boroughs home. But the delicate treaties that have kept the preternatural world in check are fraying at the edges, and the fallout is spilling into the mundane world.
Manhattan’s club scene is overrun with the vampire drug known as shine and the subways have become a dumping ground for bodies. When the dead are revealed as missing werecreatures, Patrick and Jono find themselves entangled in pack politics twisted by vampire machinations.
Learning to trust each other comes with problems for both of them, and the gods with a stake in Patrick’s soul debt aren’t finished with him yet. Bound by promises they can’t break, Patrick and Jono must find a way to survive a threat that takes no prisoners and is stalking them relentlessly through the city streets.
Old and new betrayals are coming home to roost but the truth—buried in blood—is more poisonous than the lies being spun. Trying to outrun death is a nightmare—one Patrick may never wake up from.
All Souls Near & Nigh is a 104k word m/m urban fantasy with a gay romantic subplot and a HFN ending. It is a direct sequel to A Ferry of Bones & Gold, and reading the first book in the series would be helpful in enjoying this one. Please see the disclaimer at the beginning of the book for content some readers may find triggering.
Summary:
Never promise a life that isn’t yours to give.
New York City is decked out for the holidays, and Special Agent Patrick Collins is looking forward to a reunion with his old team when he gets assigned a new case. A human child is missing, and the changeling left in her place causes a prominent witch family to demand justice from the fae.
Meanwhile, continued harassment from the New York City god pack forces Jonothon de Vere to formally establish his own with Patrick. Doing so will mean a civil war within the werecreature community—a war they risk losing from the start without alliances. Making bargains with the fae is never wise, but Patrick and Jono have nothing to lose when a fae lord comes asking for their help.
The Summer Lady has been kidnapped from the Seelie Court, and if they can find her, Patrick and Jono will cement an alliance with the fae. But the clues to her disappearance are found in Tír na nÓg, and the Otherworld has never been kind to mortals.
Venturing past the veil, Patrick and Jono risk losing territory, time, and their very lives while searching for answers. Because the Queen of Air and Darkness knows they are coming—and the ruler of the Unseelie Court has an offer for them they can’t possibly refuse.
A Crown of Iron & Silver is a 107k word m/m urban fantasy with a gay romantic subplot and a HFN ending. It is a direct sequel to All Souls Near & Nigh. Reading the prior books in the series would be helpful in enjoying this one.
A Ferry of Bones & Gold #1
1
Special Agent Patrick Collinswas not supposed to be here.
New York City was not the beaches of Maui, where he should have been enjoying a long-delayed and much-needed vacation with as many tropical drinks as he could suck down. Instead, he was back on duty for the Supernatural Operations Agency, tasked with investigating a pair of emergency cases he was certain someone else could have handled.
“Out fifteen hundred dollars and no chance of reimbursement,” Patrick muttered angrily as he navigated the midday traffic to find a parking spot on a block close to his destination.
This was what he got for answering his phone right as he arrived at Washington Dulles International Airport to start his vacation.
Never again.
“I should’ve just gone to Maui,” he said, thinking wistfully of all the drinks with little umbrellas he wouldn’t get to enjoy.
Patrick had been wanting to try them for years, if he were honest.
After nine years as a combat mage in the Mage Corps under the direction of the US Department of the Preternatural, Patrick had walked away from frontline fighting at the age of twenty-six with habits not necessarily suited for civilian life. The SOA, a National Intelligence Service under the supervision of the Department of Defense, had immediately recruited him. Which meant Patrick continued doing what he’d been trained to do in the military, just on domestic soil rather than foreign, with a little less ordnance thrown into the mix.
Three years on and over a hundred cases later, his job mostly amounted to getting dropped into cities both large and small where monsters and demons hid in the shadows of the preternatural world. Being assigned to the Rapid Response Division within the SOA meant Patrick never got the easy jobs. He got paid to get his hands and soul dirty eviscerating demons, human or otherwise. Hazard bonuses made up a good chunk of his paycheck, but on a day like this? The money was never enough.
“When this is all over, you can go wherever you want. Just get the job done first,” Supernatural Operations Agency Director Setsuna Abuku told him over the Bluetooth connection in the car. “Preferably without any collateral damage this time.”
“It’s like you don’t know me at all,” Patrick retorted.
Setsuna let out a sigh that sounded like static through the speakers. Patrick’s former childhood guardian and current boss had an attitude problem. Namely, she didn’t like his on every day that ended in ‘y’ and he didn’t like hers.
There were reasons for that.
“The SOA isn’t the military with a multibillion-dollar budget and the ability to write off your destructive tendencies with a mere warning.”
Patrick rolled his eyes as he twisted the steering wheel and shifted the car into reverse. Parking in a red zone behind a police car wasn’t ideal, but right now it was his only option. “That’s a shame. You might want to look into changing your budget.”
“Please stop complaining, Patrick.”
“If you ever gave me a day off, maybe I would.”
“I have. You didn’t. Where are you?”
“About to head into a crime scene.”
“You should have reported to the New York office before going into the field.”
“I’d rather suffer through a migraine. Knowing my luck, this case might give me one within the first twenty-four hours.”
“Patrick.”
“They got another body, Setsuna. What was I supposed to say? No, I can’t make it? This is what I came here for. This is why you sent me, remember? Dead bodies and missing people. I won’t get any work done holed up in meetings all day.”
Patrick put the car into park and took the key out of the ignition. The call reverted back to his cell phone as the engine and power died. The June heat hit him hard as he got out, phone pressed to his ear.
New York City was hotter and muggier than Washington, DC, and he already missed the car’s air-conditioning. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and Patrick ran a hand through his messy dark red hair. The sides were trimmed short, but it was a little long on top. The style had grown out of his military buzz cut from three years ago and wouldn’t pass regulations these days.
Getting spoiled, Patrick thought to himself. Here he was complaining about air-conditioning when he’d spent years living without it.
Setsuna’s annoyed voice cut his musings short. “Patrick.”
“What?”
“Check in with Special Agent in Charge Rachel Andrita at the New York office after you finish processing the body.”
“Is that really necessary? This case is being handled through DC by way of me. It’s no longer her problem,” he said.
“If you want a roof over your head instead of sleeping in your rental car, then yes, it’s necessary.”
Patrick scoffed at that. “You forget my bed consisted of a cot, a hard bunk, or the ground for years. Come up with a better threat.”
“Take the meeting, Patrick. That wasn’t a request. And try not to make this situation with the NYPD worse than it already is.”
“You know I hate dog and pony shows, Setsuna. If you wanted ass kissing, you should’ve sent someone else.”
“You were the only one I could send.”
Patrick paused in opening up the trunk of the car, fingers tightening on his cell phone. “Was I?”
Setsuna’s silence reminded him too much of a childhood where answers were never forthcoming. Patrick angrily shook his head and yanked the trunk open. A blast of hot air rose up from the space, making him wince at the heat. He unzipped his messenger bag, pulling out the travel lockbox that contained his semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol.
“Are we done?” he wanted to know.
“We’re done.”
Patrick hung up without saying goodbye and tucked his phone into the back pocket of his black jeans. He was never going to win employee of the month at this rate.
Patrick entered the code to unlock the box and flipped open the lid, revealing the handgun inside. He pried it out of the foam interior and slid the magazine home, keeping his hands out of sight of anyone passing by. Not that there were many at the moment. Everyone seemed more interested in the police presence farther down the street.
He attached the holster to his belt and slid the handgun home, the weight of it familiar. Patrick let his right arm drop down to his side, fingers brushing over the warded leather sheath strapped to his thigh. The double-edged, ten-inch dagger was an artifact he’d been gifted with three years ago during the Thirty-Day War in the Middle East. He never went anywhere without it these days, but if he could give it up, he would.
“Fucking hell,” he said, letting out a heavy sigh.
Orders from his superiors could be annoying, but those of the godly persuasion were usually worse.
Patrick grabbed his secondary gold SOA badge attached to a black leather backing from his messenger bag and hung it around his neck. It tangled with the dog tags he still wore, the metal chains warm against his skin. Shrugging on the black nylon jacket with its gold agency lettering on the back, Patrick closed the trunk and headed up the street for the crime scene.
Curious onlookers had gathered near the apartment building in question. Patrick squinted through his aviator sunglasses at the crowd and the news van situated front and center right outside the police line.
The NYPD’s Preternatural Crimes Bureau held jurisdiction over the murders that had drawn Patrick to New York City. When he’d called the PCB upon landing at LaGuardia, the assistant to Giovanni Casale, the PCB’s Chief of Preternatural Crimes, had requested he keep out of sight of the media. They weren’t ready to announce the feds were taking over the case. With the cameras camped outside the cordoned-off area, Patrick only had one real option to stay out of sight.
“Time to get to work,” he muttered.
Patrick spun his index finger in a lazy circle while he walked, reaching for that presence deep inside his soul he’d always been aware of, even as a young child.
Magic.
Roughly a quarter of the world’s population could manipulate their soul’s energy into magic. Children were tested young, with magic running through a range of types and affiliations, from various kinds of elemental magic to the more sinister calling of necromancy. Magic was only as strong as a person’s soul, and a soul still needed to keep a body alive. Evading magical burnout was impossible some days, but the risk for mages was lower compared to other magic users.
Mages were the only ones on record who could open up their souls to the rivers and lakes of metaphysical energy running through the earth in the form of ley lines and nexuses. That external, wild magic acted as a booster, giving them a reach most magic users could never attain on the basis of their soul alone. Mages were highly sought after by governments and militaries alike the world over for their ability to tap into that magic, though in some countries they were little more than slaves.
Patrick hadn’t been conscripted into joining the US Department of the Preternatural, but the pressure he’d felt at seventeen to sign those recruitment forms with Setsuna’s permission had felt a lot like he didn’t have a choice.
Maybe if he hadn’t been orphaned at the age of eight, things would be different. Maybe if he hadn’t been magically crippled during the Thirty-Day War—that clusterfuck the Dominion Sect almost won on behalf of all the hells three years ago—he wouldn’t be so fucking bitter. Patrick knew better than to deal in what-if scenarios, but it didn’t stop him from occasionally diving down that rabbit hole.
Patrick flexed his fingers, feeling a knuckle pop as he shook out his hand.
“Focus,” he told himself.
Magic, willed out from his tainted soul, spun itself into a pale, glowing blue sphere no bigger than a golf ball. It nestled against the curve of his hand, mostly hidden from sight. The mageglobe acted as an anchor point for whatever spell or ward Patrick needed to call up. The color used to be brighter, but the once vibrant shade had faded to a washed-out hue. The mageglobe’s dullness was a visual clue to the internal damage he’d suffered at the end of that month of literal hell on earth.
Patrick might have lost the reach and strength necessary to tap into a ley line and cast high-level spells and wards, but he could cast a look-away ward in his sleep. The mageglobe pulsed softly with magic, the spell within its pattern creeping into his aura, that extension of a human soul.
He pushed his magic outward, the invisible force spreading through nearby auras in the crowd with no one the wiser. The look-away ward didn’t make him invisible; it simply kept people’s attention from wandering his way until after he ducked under the yellow Do Not Cross police tape and entered the apartment building unhindered.
Patrick let the ward drop once he was out of sight of the media, the mageglobe fading away. He slipped quietly through the lobby filled with numerous police officers. He pulled off his sunglasses and hooked them over the collar of his dark blue T-shirt. Blinking to adjust his sight, he took a quick look around.
While most of the uniformed officers came and went like they had places to be, a few men and women in plain clothes gravitated around a tall man in a suit giving out orders. Patrick headed in that direction, figuring he was in charge by sheer presence alone, because Bureau Chief Giovanni Casale had a voice that would do any drill sergeant proud.
“…can’t clean it up until we get it secured,” Casale was saying. “Ramirez, get somebody to watch out for that damn SOA special agent. Paula said he should be here soon.”
The dark-haired woman in a neat pantsuit with a gold shield on her belt arched an eyebrow and jerked her thumb in Patrick’s direction. “Found him, Chief.”
Casale’s attention zeroed in on Patrick, who wasn’t intimidated at all by the intensity of it. He stuck out his hand, meeting Casale’s gaze with unblinking green eyes. “Special Agent Patrick Collins. I’m with the Rapid Response Division based out of the SOA’s DC office. The director sent me your way.”
Casale shook his hand, grip firm. “Tell me you’re someone with expertise in demons and that Rachel didn’t sabotage our request for new help.”
Patrick arched an eyebrow, curious about the rancor in Casale’s voice that he didn’t bother to hide. “I’m a mage. Demons are my specialty. The SOA should’ve contacted you about that.”
Casale gave him a sharp, measuring look. “I’ve been on-site for the better part of half a day dealing with this mess. I haven’t had a chance to check my email.”
Patrick glanced up at the ceiling. “Heard you got another body.”
“Eighth this year. Third in the past goddamn month and a half. The time between murders is getting shorter; we’ve got no leads and very messy crime scenes. The SOA’s local field office wasn’t worth the headache they were giving us, so we appealed. And now you’re here.” Casale jerked his thumb at the two people standing closest to him. “Detective Specialists Allison Ramirez and Dwayne Guthrie. They’re lead on this whole mess and reporting directly to me. People, this is our latest SOA liaison.”
Tall and black, Dwayne nodded a hello but didn’t offer his hand. His partner, Allison, was about Patrick’s height and appeared younger than Dwayne, her curly, dark hair pulled back in a tight french braid. She eyed him with frank professional curiosity. “Never worked with a mage before. Our last liaison was a witch.”
Patrick shrugged. “Just feed me more often. Where’s the body?”
“Third floor. Let’s get you up there,” Casale said.
The elevator they took was on the small side, and everyone had to squeeze together to fit. Patrick noted the space the other three left around him with mild disinterest. That didn’t stop him from striking up a conversation.
“So, what’s the buy-in?” he asked.
“What buy-in?” Dwayne repeated with just enough confusion in his tone that anyone other than an SOA agent would fall for it.
“Oh, come on. We all know the NYPD hates partnering with the SOA. It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about the pool on how long the new guy will last in front of your boss. Just let the bookie know I’m good for a hundred to see this through.”
Allison shook her head. “You’re that sure of yourself?”
Patrick flashed her a smile as the elevator came to a shaky stop and the doors opened. “I can always use the extra cash.”
As soon as they stepped out of the elevator, the smile on Patrick’s face disappeared. His magic responded to the faint traces of hell in the vicinity as it always did. The discordant recognition cut against the protective wards that made up his personal shields to contain the taint of his magic. Layered in skin, locked inside his bones, his shields weren’t enough to keep his damaged magic from recognizing when something from any of the hells past the veil had leaked through. Nothing left a stain in the metaphysical energies of the world quite like that.
“I think you’re right about demons. The whole floor is contaminated with a hellish taint derived from black magic,” Patrick said, looking over his shoulder at Casale.
Casale clenched his jaw hard enough the tendons in his neck stood out before he let out an explosive sigh. “The witch we have monitoring the crime scene hasn’t notified me of a risk like that.”
Patrick started walking, dodging past a couple of uniformed cops standing guard in the hallway. “She’s not a mage. The taint is barely noticeable, but I can still sense it. Someone without my reach would probably miss it.”
“Everyone working at the PCB carries protective charms. Are those enough to keep our souls safe?”
“Depends on what I find at the crime scene.”
Patrick had a feeling he’d be stripping a lot of souls of lingering stains caused by black magic before he left. That was never fun for anyone.
Black magic was illegal for a lot of reasons, not the least being most victims of those spells ended up dead. Patrick knew that better than most. He’d survived a premeditated attack and still carried the scars—physical, mental, magical—from when he was a child and a demon nearly clawed out his heart.
Patrick’s ability to track and kill demons and monsters with ties to the preternatural world was a side effect of that childhood trauma. That little quirk in his magic had made him an asset to the Mage Corps and was the reason he had been assigned to a Special Operations Forces team. His hunting skills meant the Hellraisers’ mission success rate looked good on paper, but it did shit-all for Patrick’s personal health.
Someone had propped the apartment door open with a potted plant. Patrick stepped inside, moving past the tiny kitchen to the living room and its bloody center of attraction. He was mindful of the numbered evidence tags scattered over the floor, making sure not to knock any over. He stopped near the once pristine white couch, staring down at the victim’s remains.
Patrick wasn’t looking at a whole body, just pieces of it. The ceiling resembled a bloody Pollack painting, courtesy of the dead man’s eviscerated torso. The rib cage had been pried open like meaty butterfly wings, revealing a half-empty cavity that was missing a heart and three-quarters of the lungs. The soft skin of the abdomen was nothing but shreds, intestines spilling out of the lower part of the large, jagged hole in ropey, pinkish-gray knots.
Strings of muscle clung to the raggedly broken bones jutting out of what remained of each arm. The victim’s legs were gnawed through at the thigh, the femur bones bitten clean through. Blood saturated the carpet and the nearby couch cushions, as if he’d been dragged off the couch to the floor. Fat bits of flesh were scattered across the floor around the body, but Patrick didn’t see any sign of the missing limbs or organs.
Patrick would bet his entire next paycheck the guy had been eaten alive.
Members of the Crime Scene Unit and a representative from the medical examiner’s office were carefully working around the body. The state of the victim made their job slightly more difficult than usual.
“You told the next of kin they’re getting ashes back and not a body for a viewing, right? Did you burn all the other ones as well?” Patrick asked.
“They all got cremated. Standard procedure for homicide cases under our purview. We’re not new at this,” Dwayne said, sounding vaguely irritated.
Patrick knew most police forces didn’t like a federal agency coming in and stepping on their toes. The defensiveness wasn’t unusual. But he needed to play nice if he was going to get anywhere with this case. So he bit back the retort sitting on the tip of his tongue, mindful of Setsuna’s request, and focused on the dead instead of the living.
“Anyone have a spare set of gloves?” he asked.
“In the case,” a woman with CSU on the back of her jacket said.
Patrick followed where she pointed and went to dig up a pair of latex gloves. Pulling them on, he approached the body and crouched down for a closer look at the victim’s face. The report he’d read on his MacBook during the short flight to New York had contained details about the dead that weren’t showing up in the press—yet.
The waxy skin of the mutilated face was cold to the touch. He pulled down an eyelid to get a better look at what linked this murder to all the others. The astrological sign sliced into delicate skin had been done with such precision that Patrick doubted it was the work of the demon who had ripped the body apart.
He touched a finger to the sign that represented the immortal god Ares, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. In his experience, nothing good ever came from magic that called to the gods.
Patrick couldn’t sense any magic left behind in the body itself. Whatever spell the signs had been a catalyst for, it was nearly gone now. The only trace of it left was the residual of hellish taint.
“Are the signs the only things connecting the murders?” Patrick asked.
“The current MO is half-eaten bodies and the signs. There aren’t any links we can find between the victims. There’s no consistency between their economic, religious, racial, or social backgrounds. We’ve only found bodies in Manhattan though,” Dwayne said.
“Can you be certain they’ve only been found in Manhattan? Are they all locals?”
“The PCB has jurisdiction in the five boroughs. We’ve looped in our affiliates outside New York City, but we haven’t received any calls from other departments, and we haven’t released critical details to the public,” Casale said.
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“None. Door was locked and so were all the windows except the one running the air-conditioning unit, but there’s no sign it was tampered with,” Allison said.
“Poor guy’s wife is a nurse and came home after an overnight shift at New York-Presbyterian in Lower Manhattan. Found him like this,” Dwayne added. “She had a nervous breakdown, and EMTs removed her from the premises.”
Patrick settled his weight back on his heels, still studying the body. “Hopefully not far. I’ll need to make sure she’s clean of magical residue before she can be let go. You said you ran off the local SOA agents previously working with you. What was their conclusion?”
“Nothing helpful,” Casale said with a snort. “One witch suggested looking into hellhounds and maybe getting animal control to help with it.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “On a scale of one to bullshit, I call bullshit. Body looks like it got hit by a magical IED, not a rabid dog.”
“You think that’s what happened? A magical IED?”
“No. I guarantee the ME report for this victim will be the same as all the others in this case. No forced entry into the home. Body half eaten, and signs carved on their eyes.” Patrick stood up and stripped off his gloves, depositing them in a biohazard bin nearby before heading to where the other three stood. “Killings like this, especially with the signs, means these people were targeted for a specific reason.”
Casale studied him with an unreadable look in his eyes. “You’re talking assassination.”
Patrick shrugged. “Assassination, murder—both get you dead.”
“That’s more than the other SOA agents gave us, Chief,” Allison said quietly.
Which shouldn’t be the case, but Patrick was familiar with the rot hiding deep within the SOA that Setsuna and her predecessors hadn’t been able to completely carve out.
Patrick crossed his arms over his chest, the jacket pulling against his shoulders with the motion. “I’ll need to see the full file on this case, not just the encrypted report you emailed my boss. I also need to make sure no one else is leaving with residual black magic in their souls. Who else has been in contact with the body?”
“We’ll get you names,” Casale said with a grimace. He waved a hand at the crime scene and everything in it. “Give me your take on all of this.”
“I don’t know what the signs relate to, but the chewing and rending and the magic? At the very least, you have a demon problem.”
“Mayor will be thrilled,” Dwayne muttered.
Casale let out a heavy sigh and pointed a finger at the two detectives. “Both of you are in charge until everyone clears out. I’m going downstairs to feed the press. That should give Special Agent Collins enough time to make sure everyone here won’t need to call a priest for last rites. Collins? You’re coming with me after my presser. We’re meeting with my favorite pair of eyes.”
Dwayne glanced at Casale in surprise. “I thought your meeting with him was next week?”
“I’m moving it up.”
Patrick frowned. “Who are we visiting?”
“Someone who might be able to shed some light on this mess, if we’re lucky.”
“If you have local help outside the SOA, why haven’t you gone to them before this?”
Casale gave him a hard smile before turning his back on the group and heading for the door. “The SOA is technically the cheaper option, and the City gets pissed when we go over budget with our overtime. Make sure my people are safe, Collins. Any of them get hurt, the next thing I’m sending your agency is a complaint.”
Patrick barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Looked like the animosity between state and federal agencies was still alive and kicking.
“Right,” Patrick said, eyeing Allison and Dwayne. “Who wants me to check their soul first? I have to warn you, that spell hurts like a son of a bitch.”
In unison, the two pointed at each other, silently volunteering their partner to go first.
All Souls of Near & Nigh #2
1
Special Agent Patrick Collinswinced as he clattered down the stairs of the Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall/Chambers Street subway entrance, the motion jarring his still-healing nose. The medical tape slapped over the bridge of it itched his skin, but he refrained from scratching at the annoyance.
The passage down into the subway was packed with people from a delayed rush hour commute on a Wednesday night. Despite the crowd, everyone got out of his way when Patrick said, “Federal agent, coming through.”
Patrick’s Supernatural Operations Agency badge hung from his neck, and his semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol was holstered on his right hip. The gods-made dagger he never went anywhere without was securely strapped to his right thigh. Patrick had opted to leave his jacket with the agency lettering across the back in his car. August in New York City was too fucking hot to wear anything but short sleeves.
Patrick had been upstate dealing with an incursion of Redcaps for the past week. He’d been looking forward to going home once he landed at LaGuardia. One call from Special Agent in Charge Henry Ng before he even deplaned and he’d been assigned an emergency case with the NYPD’s Preternatural Crimes Bureau. It was a familiar song and dance he was too tired to perform but didn’t have a choice.
He raked a hand through his dark red hair as he made it to the fare gates and kept moving past the officer on guard duty. No one tried to stop him.
At least this case is local.
Since June, Patrick had called New York City home. The transfer from the national office to a field office had taken some getting used to. The majority of the cases he handled now came out of New York state, though he still got sent out on national ones if the need was great enough. Media focus aside, Patrick was enjoying how less chaotic his job was lately.
Nothing about a dead body ruining a rush hour subway commute was enjoyable though.
Detective Specialist Dwayne Guthrie waved Patrick over once he made it to the subway platform. “About damn time, Collins.”
“Would’ve been here sooner, but traffic was terrible,” Patrick said.
“Maybe you should look into getting some lights and sirens put into your car. Or convince the mayor he needs a better outreach program for troubled youth so shit like this doesn’t happen and we all get a night off for once. The dumbasses who sneak into the tunnels to tag turf keep getting eaten and it’s annoying.”
Patrick jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There were signs up by the gates. No feeding the trolls.”
Dwayne rolled his eyes. “Do you think any of the fools selling shit on the corner actually read? And what happened to your face?”
Patrick made an aborted motion to touch his face, his healing nose and bruised green eyes throbbing a little. “Went face-first into a tree. I took a potion before I got on the plane. I’ll be fine.”
A witch’s brew was better than painkillers some days. The accelerated healing it could produce meant the swelling had gone down enough that Patrick could see out of both eyes, and the cartilage in his nose would mend straight in a couple of days rather than weeks. His head was still sore, not to mention the rest of his body, but ignoring the discomfort was second nature at this point.
Patrick gazed around the crowded center platform of the station. Several uniformed police officers were keeping the area near them clear, but no trains were running on their side of the platform. Patrick tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, feeling sweat trickle down his spine. Summer in the city was a swamp-like hell of high heat and high humidity, especially down in the subway.
“Where’s the body?” Patrick asked.
“In the Old City Hall subway station,” Dwayne replied.
“You’ve confirmed it’s not a suicide?”
Dwayne nodded as he headed toward the end of the platform where a set of gated stairs were located, guarded by an officer. “You’ll see why. A train operator spotted the body when his train looped around. Victim wasn’t found on the tracks, but the MTA is holding the 6 line until we’re done processing the area for evidence. We’ve been waiting on you.”
“Bet the commuters aren’t happy about that.”
“Not my problem.”
Patrick followed Dwayne off the platform and onto the subway tracks. The tunnel itself was dark, so Patrick called up a couple of witchlights to guide their way. Pale blue sparks erupted from his fingertips as he pushed magic out of his damaged soul, the illumination bouncing ahead of them. Casting the spell was harder than usual, but he chalked that up to the location.
Patrick grimaced at the feel of the wards that lined the tunnel walls. Subways were built through swaths of the veil, which meant their construction had been done by both mundane and magical means. The magic protecting the subway system was old, extensive, and powerful, with the anchor points of the wards radiating out from Grand Central Terminal. The wards made casting magic difficult, but an innocuous spell to conjure light was doable.
Minutes later, Patrick’s witchlights merged with the brightness put out by portable floodlights, and he let his magic fade away. He and Dwayne came out of the dark tunnel into a station that made it feel as if they were stepping back in time. The vaulted ceiling with its leaded glass skylights and chandeliers were part of a bygone era that seemed out of place in today’s modern world.
The body on the platform ruined the retro atmosphere.
Patrick lowered his personal shields, trying to get a read on the area, but his magic recognized no discernable threat. Members of the PCB’s Crime Scene Unit were diligently working on collecting evidence while PCB officers kept watch. Patrick spotted Dwayne’s partner, Detective Specialist Allison Ramirez, almost immediately. She waved them over, frowning at Patrick once they got closer.
“I know the chief requested federal help for this, but I didn’t think we’d get to work with you again so soon,” Allison said. “You look like you went a couple of rounds in the boxing ring and lost.”
Patrick shrugged. “Actually, I won. What do we got?”
This was only the second time Patrick had been assigned to take over a case from the PCB. June had been a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but he’d come away from it having earned a little of Bureau Chief Giovanni Casale’s respect. The people under his command were less antagonistic when dealing with Patrick this time around, which he appreciated. Usually local police didn’t much like it when federal agencies took over their cases.
Allison gestured at the body. “Victim’s state in death is similar to the murders in June, but they don’t seem related. No heavenly signs sliced on his eyes. Body was chewed on for dinner though. Considering the amount of demonic cases the PCB has wedged in its pipeline, I’m inclined to add this one to the list.”
“The wards down here should’ve prevented any demonic incursion. Any magic user on the MTA’s payroll should know what to look for when it comes to damage while checking the lines.”
“Maybe they missed something.”
“It’s possible. Sometimes the damage doesn’t show right away and you get holes later on. The London Underground had a basilisk incursion about thirty years ago. Things ate their way through a weakened section at a switch point. Made a meal out of the morning commute.”
“I read about that. Not a fun way to start your morning.”
New York City had seen an increase in demon activity ever since the veil had torn over Central Park. Patrick had closed the hole between worlds at the end of that fight, but demons and monsters had still slipped through. It was possible the subway wards had taken some unnoticed damage.
Since June, the homicide rate had gone up in the city, faith in the SOA’s ability to handle the problem was in the gutters, and Patrick was still the House Committee on Supernatural Oversight’s favorite whipping boy at the moment.
Thinking about politics made Patrick want to drink.
The kid lying dead on the subway platform was never going to learn the joys of the legal drinking age. He was your typical troublemaker because it was usually troublemakers who decided to ruin public property. Cans of spray paint were scattered over the platform, each one tagged with an evidence number. Strangely enough, there wasn’t any graffiti on the walls.
“Maybe it’s a dump job,” Patrick said.
“Hard to dump a body in the subway, especially in this spot. Access isn’t easy on tracks with trains running, even for MTA workers,” Dwayne pointed out.
Patrick approached the body and the woman crouched down taking notes on a clipboard. He was mindful of the numbered evidence tags in the area and made sure not to knock any over. “We have a time of death yet?”
“Sometime this morning, but it has to be verified back at the lab,” the woman said. Her jacket had Medical Examiner written across the back, and her brown hair was twisted into a messy bun at the base of her neck. The identification dangling around her neck had her photo ID and the name Catherine Margolin printed on it beneath the medical examiner’s logo.
“No chance of getting a more accurate time frame?”
Catherine shook her head, looking up at him. “Wards in the tunnel are messing with my equipment. Think you can stop the interference?”
Patrick pulled out a pair of black nitrile gloves from her work case. “No. Anchored protective wards on this scale aren’t something you mess with. Besides, I don’t really have an affinity for defensive magic.”
“Then you’re stuck waiting until I get back to the morgue for a more precise answer.”
Magic users made up a quarter of the world’s population, but everyone born with magic had a different affinity. Patrick excelled in offensive spells, and the damage done to his soul as a child meant he was better at recognizing threats from all the hells than most other magic users. That unwanted talent had come in handy throughout his nine years in the Mage Corps under the US Department of the Preternatural, and the past three with the SOA, usually at the expense of his health.
Crouching down, Patrick frowned at the corpse. “Trains were running during his time of death and all day today. The body would’ve been seen before now. It has to be a dump job.”
Catherine waved her pen in the general vicinity of the crime scene. “Killed here or somewhere else, no one saw the victim until the train operator spotted the body. You’d be surprised at the things people don’t see.”
“No, I wouldn’t. You already got your pictures?”
“Lots. Feel free to poke around. The PCB is starting to bag up evidence. We were waiting on you before we bagged the body.”
The victim was missing the left arm up to the elbow, and the left leg was barely hanging on at the knee. The right arm lay mangled about a meter away, as if tossed there. The tears weren’t clean, nor did they have the pulverized look to them that would’ve indicated being run over by a train before being laid out on the platform.
His head looked strangely misshapen until Patrick realized it wasn’t damage, but most likely the body caught in the middle of a shift. He prodded at the stiff, cold lips, managing to get a look at the too-sharp, large teeth in the corpse’s mouth.
“Werecreature,” Patrick said.
Catherine nodded, still taking down notes. “Yeah. We’re going to need to bring a hazmat crew down here to clean up the crime scene. Judging by his eye color, he’s not god pack, so we can rule out that strain of the werevirus.”
“Can’t rule out dealing with the god pack.”
Patrick wished he could.
The two strains of the werevirus had segregated the werecreature community into packs that were able to hide their status and god packs who couldn’t. Those infected with the god strain of the werevirus were visual scapegoats for society, and the New York City god pack was hostile to anyone who didn’t share their disease.
In the past, god packs used to have a connection to their animal-god patrons, but those were a rarity these days. The only god pack alpha Patrick knew of with a patron was a man the Fates had thrown at him without either of their consents.
Jonothon de Vere was an ex-pat Englishman, exiled from the London god pack and refused acceptance by the New York City god pack when he emigrated three years ago. The attraction between them upon first meeting two months ago had been purely physical. What Patrick felt for Jono now went deeper, though he wasn’t sure if he could trust his own emotions in that area.
At the end of the fight in June, Patrick had unwittingly bound their souls together through the magic buried in the gods-given dagger he carried. The soulbond enabled Patrick to once again tap ley lines and nexuses by virtue of his newfound ability to channel his magic through Jono’s soul. He’d spent three years since the Thirty-Day War carrying a soul wound that prevented him from accessing such an integral part of his magic. Having that ability back was life altering. That it came at the expense of Jono’s autonomy meant Patrick had yet to do anything with his returned strength.
The soulbond was illegal, despite the accidental creation of it. Messing with a person’s soul was a capital crime in the United States. Patrick couldn’t ask for help in breaking the soulbond without being arrested, so he and Jono had agreed to keep it a secret, the same way they’d kept their newly formed pack a secret from the New York City god pack.
It was a good thing Patrick knew how to keep his mouth shut.
But like any good federal agent, he was adept at speaking for the dead and getting justice for the crimes committed against them.
The skin around the teenager’s throat was mottled with bruises that lined a strip of burn scars too uniform to be anything but intentional. Werecreatures were severely allergic to silver, and aconite poisoning could be lethal. Patrick traced his gloved fingers over the burn area, measuring the space with his fingers.
It was just wide enough for the shape of a collar, which spoke of enslavement of some kind.
“He put up a fight,” Catherine said.
“Against who is the question,” Patrick said.
“Werecreatures have enhanced strength. Whatever killed him would’ve had to have been stronger.”
“A silver bullet to the heart is just as lethal as a fight for dominance. He’s got bruises, and werecreatures can heal those in seconds.”
“Then he was killed before the bruises could disappear and before he could fully shift.” Catherine pointed at the arm lying some distance from them. “His hands have defensive wounds. He didn’t die easy.”
“Nothing about his state in death suggests that. I’m going to need to know the werevirus strain he was infected with to figure out what pack he came from.”
“I can type him once we get the body to the morgue and get you that confirmation tonight.”
“Appreciate it.”
“If you want to talk to the dead, we can call in the necromancer.”
“I doubt a judge would sign off on a Resurrection Order for a murdered werecreature.”
Necromancy was illegal in most countries. Calling back a soul gone to rest in order to raise the dead was anathema in most cultures. There were exceptions. Sometimes the government allowed a necromancer to work with strict government supervision, usually at the federal level or with a Preternatural Crimes Bureau in a major metropolitan area. Getting a Resurrection Order out of the courts was damned difficult most days.
All they had was a body and no motive. Setting aside society’s inherent biases toward werecreatures, no judge would rubber stamp an order with that little evidence in hand.
Patrick lifted up some of the stiff jean fabric out of the way to get a better look at the cavity ripped into the left thigh. The femur bone was intact, but the femoral artery had damage to it reminiscent of bite marks. The only creatures Patrick knew of who liked blood as much as flesh were vampires.
“He had to have bled out somewhere else before getting dumped here,” Patrick said thoughtfully. That was a headache he really didn’t want to deal with.
Patrick’s experience with vampires and their Night Courts was unique in a way he could’ve done without. He hadn’t crossed paths with any of the Night Courts that claimed the five boroughs as their territory since transferring here. Looked like that was going to change.
In the grand scheme of things, vampires were still better than dealing with his father and twin sister. Their toxic family reunion back in June could’ve gone worse, but only if Patrick had put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.
Patrick straightened up, wincing as his bruised muscles pulled from the motion. The witch’s brew could only heal so much. “Anything else I should know about?”
“Ramirez has the evidence I pulled out of the vic’s pocket,” Catherine said. She put her notepad into its metal carrying case and tucked it under one arm as she stood. “You might want to take a look at it.”
“Allison?” Patrick called out as he stripped off his nitrile gloves and deposited them in the biohazard bin. “What was the guy carrying?”
Allison pointed at where evidence bags were laid out on the platform, hastily marked with a Sharpie pen. “Over there.”
When Patrick got close enough to see, it wasn’t what he was expecting. The first bag carried a handful of white pills, some broken and a few others whole. The intact pills each had a tiny red-black dot staining the center of each one, and Patrick frowned, poking at them through the plastic.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Allison nodded as she came over. “If you’re thinking shine, then most likely. The drugs still need to be tested and verified.”
Patrick rubbed at his mouth, staring hard at the pills in the evidence bag. Shine was a drug that had been around for hundreds of years through various iterations. Its origin stemmed from vampires, though historians couldn’t agree on which Night Court first created and introduced it to their human servants.
These days the demand for shine meant most of it was lab synthesized. Its popularity came and went, but it looked like the city was having another love affair with the drug. The pills showing up this summer were cause for alarm though. Patrick had read a memo the SOA had sent out about them back in May.
The stuff hitting the streets right now was the real deal. Made with true vampire blood and all its supernatural properties, shine was a potent drug that offered a euphoric, sexual high to those who took it. Highly addictive, it allowed mundane humans the ability to see a person’s aura, the bright shine of a person’s soul that only magic users could sometimes see. Mundane human eyes weren’t meant to process a sight like that, and they craved darkness—any kind of blindness really—while high.
Vampires had no souls and were more than willing to comfort an addict in the throes of addiction and withdrawal. The drug running through an addict’s veins didn’t affect them, merely gave the blood a different flavor.
Shine was how some Night Courts enslaved their human servants. Addiction could happen on the first hit, and the list of industrial chemicals that made up the drug could literally rot a person’s brain. Bartering sex and blood to stave off some of the harsher effects of the drug wasn’t a great trade-off. Most people in their right mind didn’t want to be owned by a vampire, but addicts never made rational decisions.
Some mundane humans liked dancing with the darker aspects of the preternatural world. Magic users who took shine never handled the drug well and almost always ended up on a bad trip. They could already see a person’s aura; shine stripped away their safeguards and could tip their magic dangerously out of control. Patrick, despite using cigarettes and alcohol as a crutch to get through his adult life, had never gone down the black hole of hard drugs.
As for werecreatures? Patrick knew the god pack had treaties with the Night Courts here marking off territory. The only way to get shine was through street gang dealers or directly from the source. Werecreatures shouldn’t be working for vampires or buying from them, except he had a dead kid that said otherwise, amongst other things.
Patrick dropped the evidence bag onto the platform and reached for the second one that held a small figurine. Made out of white plastic, the skeleton reaper was shrouded in a hooded robe, carrying a scythe in one hand and a globe in the other. Despite the wards down here, Patrick could sense traces of black magic emanating from the figurine.
“This is an artifact,” Patrick said, weighing it in his hand. Artifacts, portable objects capable of holding magic that nonmagic users could wield, felt heavier than they looked.
“Not surprised, considering what it is. Any idol of Santa Muerte is usually handled by a witch in this city. Our evidence bags are lightly warded, so anyone transporting it should be safe enough,” Dwayne said as he approached.
Patrick was familiar with the religion that had sprung out of Mexico over the last few decades or so and spread through North and South America. It made him uneasy, but not for reasons most people would assume. Worship was a powerful tool for any god or goddess in the modern age, but he didn’t much care for those who presided over the dead.
Patrick carefully set the sealed figurine down on the platform. “I doubt the kid worshipped Santa Muerte. Possibility of him being either a dealer or a junkie isn’t something we can discount. The toxicology report is going to take weeks to confirm.”
“The drugs could’ve been planted,” Dwayne said, staring at the body. “Kid is African American. There’s no love lost between black and Mexican gangs. Werecreature aside, he wouldn’t be part of any Mexican gang unless he was killed out of retaliation or for an initiation. If that’s the case, I don’t know why he ended up down here and not in his own turf as a warning.”
“Something to look into,” Patrick said as he got to his feet.
“You may want to talk to someone in Narcotics and the Gang Unit. They have a better handle on the shine problem than we do, even if they haven’t tracked it to the source yet,” Allison said.
Dwayne snorted. “Good luck with that. The DEA has been trying for years. Everyone knows the Omacatl Cartel has a monopoly on shine in the five boroughs, and every gang member the DEA has managed to arrest hasn’t confessed to any alliance with vampires. Been that way for decades. I doubt it’ll change anytime soon.”
“Killing a werecreature goes against the treaties the Night Courts have with the god pack here though,” Patrick pointed out. “That’s an angle we need to figure out.”
“We’re always looking for hard evidence to pin on the bloodsucking bastards. Maybe we’ll get lucky with this case.” Dwayne cocked an eyebrow at him. “You can be our lucky charm.”
Patrick made a face. “Like last time? No, thanks. I’ll let you handle the transport of the body and evidence to your morgue. The sooner we get the autopsy report, the sooner we’ll have some answers.”
“Not handling it at the federal level?” Allison asked.
“I am the federal level, but I think everyone will feel a lot better if it all stays within the PCB.”
He might hate politics, but Patrick could play the game when required. The SOA didn’t have a stellar reputation at the moment, especially here. The PCB, on the other hand, was viewed far more favorably in the public eye right now. Patrick would prefer to work with the PCB rather than work out of the SOA field office, which would cut down on communication issues. His individual efforts with the PCB back in June had gone over a lot better than the SOA as a whole in media polls.
Besides, Patrick didn’t have an assigned partner, and he’d learned over the years that relying on local help tended to smooth things over.
“You heading back to the PCB with us?” Dwayne wanted to know.
Patrick shook his head. “I’m going to run down the werecreature angle.”
“I don’t envy you talking to the god pack alphas at all.”
Patrick shrugged and said nothing. Estelle Walker and Youssef Khan were the god pack alphas of New York City, but they weren’t who Patrick was going to talk to.
A Crown of Iron & Silver #3
1
Special Agent Patrick Collinsslammed the Mustang’s trunk closed, swearing when he almost dropped the umbrella and his grocery bags. Not that the umbrella was doing much good against the icy rain coming down sideways, driven by a strong wind. His damp clothes were getting wetter, and no amount of drying charms would fix that while he was outside.
“Fuck it,” Patrick muttered.
He pushed his personal shields out of his skin, letting the invisible barrier of magic protect him from the rain while under the umbrella. Patrick sighed in relief at the momentary respite from the weather. At 2130, Patrick was cold, tired, and hungry after a long day working out of the Supernatural Operations Agency’s field office. He’d stopped by Westside Market on the drive home to pick up the groceries he’d forgotten to get last night. He was too tired to cook tonight, but hopefully pizza was waiting for him at home.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, Patrick headed down the street toward the five-story brownstone apartment building he called home in Chelsea. He’d shared the top-floor apartment with Jonothon de Vere since July. He’d never realized how nice it was to have someone to come home to until he’d moved in with Jono. All those years of returning to a quiet apartment or hotel room paled in comparison of being met at the door with a kiss.
Some of the buildings he passed had windows decorated with Christmas lights and cutouts of Santa Claus and reindeer on the inside. A few had their curtains parted enough he could see the decorated Christmas trees inside the apartments. Ever since Thanksgiving, more and more homes were starting to decorate for the holidays, but everyone lagged behind the touristy spots in the city.
Patrick couldn’t wait to get home, eat, and crawl into his nice warm bed. His latest case had involved a group of kappas in the Hudson River hassling commuter ferries. He’d ended every work day for the past three soaked to the bone. Heat charms in his leather jacket aside, if some other creature took over the New York harbor during December, he was punting the job to someone else.
If he got sick, he was taking the rest of the month off and heading to Maui.
Patrick hefted the three reusable grocery bags in his right hand, ignoring the way the nylon handles dug into his palm. He needed to walk one block, and then he’d be home and warm.
When he was half a block away—so close, yet so far—recognition burned through Patrick’s magic with the heated spark of werecreatures. He squinted through the rain at the group of people standing in front of his apartment building and scowled.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Patrick groaned.
His semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol was holstered on his right hip and the gods-given dagger was strapped to his right thigh. Even with his hands full, Patrick wasn’t without a weapon.
Patrick pushed more of his magic out of his soul, letting it form a mageglobe near his left shoulder. The small sphere of raw magic hovered in the air and kept pace with him as he closed the distance between himself and the suddenly attentive group of werecreatures.
In August, Jono had declared his own god pack, separate from the New York City god pack run by Estelle Walker and Youssef Khan. That declaration had created a lot of tension between their newly formed god pack and most of the other packs in the city. More than once they’d been accosted around the one-block territory they claimed as theirs.
Patrick wasn’t in the mood for another fight. He wanted to get inside where it was warm.
“You know, the last time some of you came sniffing around, Jono broke a dozen bones. When your kind tried that shit with me, they ended up in the hospital before getting a trip to Rikers for assaulting a federal agent. You really want that same trip?”
“We’re not here to fight,” the tall, willowy black woman retorted, not moving from her spot.
“We came to talk,” the Mexican American man standing opposite of her added.
Maybe they had, but Patrick hadn’t survived this long by taking people’s word at face value. He didn’t recognize them, and he didn’t trust them.
“Talking usually happens at Tempest,” Patrick said.
The bar that Jono managed catered to the werecreature community. It had seen a slowdown in business since they’d formed their pack but was in no danger of closing. No longer seen as neutral territory, Tempest was where those willing to risk Estelle and Youssef’s wrath went for help.
“We went there first. Jono wasn’t in.”
Patrick eyed the six werecreatures huddled underneath umbrellas as he approached. Now that he was closer, he could see the wide space between them that only happened when more than one pack was in the same vicinity.
Patrick put the grocery bags on the wet ground and dug out his cell phone, never taking his eyes off the werecreatures.
“Yeah?” Jono’s deep voice answered after the first ring, his English accent thick in Patrick’s ear. “You almost home, mate?”
“Downstairs. Got some unwanted visitors.”
Jono ended the call on his side of the line without saying a word, and Patrick put his phone away. None of the werecreatures had moved much, except maybe to huddle closer together under their umbrellas. The stormy weather was shitty, and it was cold, and Patrick really didn’t want to deal with pack issues out on the street. He didn’t want to deal with any of it right now, not after the day he’d had, but Patrick didn’t really have a choice
Less than ten seconds later, Jono yanked open the building’s front door and stepped into the storm. The long-sleeved gray Henley he wore was immediately soaked, as were his jeans. Patrick spared him a glance when he would’ve preferred to let his gaze linger. A wet Jono was always nice to look at, but keeping his eyes on the threat in front of them took priority.
“We’re not here to fight,” the woman repeated, raising a hand in a defensive manner.
“Neither are we,” the man in the other pack said.
“Then why are you here?” Jono demanded, coming down the stoop, his wolf-bright blue eyes reflecting light from the nearby streetlamp.
The werecreatures glanced at each other uneasily. Before any of them could speak, a car braked to a stop in front of their building. Patrick mentally guided his mageglobe down to his hand, curling his fingers around it to keep his magic out of sight but still at the ready.
No one said a word as the driver opened his trunk from the inside of the car before getting out. Water fell off the brim of his cap that had the name of a delivery app company stamped across it. “Uh, did one of you order the extra-large pepperoni?”
“I did,” Jono said.
Jono moved between the two packs to accept the pizza box from the driver. Patrick stared mournfully at the box Jono held and how quickly the cardboard was getting drenched.
“I’m getting cold pizza tonight, aren’t I?” Patrick said.
Jono turned his back on the delivery driver in order to deal with the werecreatures who’d crossed into their territory uninvited. He waited until the guy drove off before saying, “Start talking.”
The woman cleared her throat. “Our packs live in apartment buildings across the street from each other.”
“They’re not sharing the block how we agreed,” the man said.
“You took over our north corner without asking.”
Jono held up one hand, and they both clamped their mouths shut. “You shouldn’t have come here. It’s not safe for you.”
The woman crossed her arms over her chest, the puffer coat she wore bunching at the elbows. The faux fur lining the hood was the same dark brown color as her skin. “We had no other choice because…”
Her voice trailed off, the silence that followed full of explanations Patrick didn’t need to guess at. God packs existed to protect the packs within their territories. That meant being in the public eye so others could live in hiding, but it also meant mediating problems between the packs under their care.
Estelle and Youssef were fucking terrible at that.
Back in August, they’d discovered the god pack alphas were selling independent werecreatures to a drug cartel and the Manhattan Night Court when it had been ruled by Tremaine. That master vampire was dead now, killed by his sire. Patrick had ignored Lucien’s dealings for months since the fight against Santa Muerte and Tremaine at Grand Central Terminal. He hadn’t ignored the shitty way Estelle and Youssef ruled over the packs who called the five boroughs home.
When Jono was an independent, there were times other werecreatures would discreetly meet with him for advice. It should have been Estelle and Youssef they went to, and it said a lot about the situation in New York that they’d gone to Jono before he even had a pack.
If that’s what this situation was about, Patrick knew they couldn’t turn the werecreatures away no matter how badly he wanted to. This wasn’t the first time since August they had been approached for advice rather than needing to defend their territory and status, but it was the first time it had happened at home.
Jono studied the werecreatures for a long few seconds before looking over at where Patrick stood. “Wade’s here.”
“He better not touch my pizza.” Patrick bent over to grab the grocery bags. “I’ll conduct hospitality if you really want to do it.”
“Rather you get inside where it’s warm. No sense in having a chat where everyone can hear.” Jono nodded at the apartment building’s door. “You lot, get moving.”
The werecreatures let Jono go first to open the door and filed up after him. Patrick strengthened his personal shields and raised one between Jono and the two packs, not taking any chances. He knew Jono could take care of himself, but it made Patrick feel better about the situation.
He closed his umbrella and walked up after everyone else, keeping the mageglobe between himself and the last werecreature in the group. More than one of them looked over their shoulder at Patrick, the wariness in their eyes impossible to miss. No one said a word until Jono let everyone into their home and the heart of their territory. A wave of hot air greeted Patrick, and he sighed in relief as he nudged the door shut with his elbow. He extinguished the mageglobe with a thought.
“Did you bring snacks?”
Patrick looked over at where Wade Espinoza was sprawled on the couch, eyeing the grocery bags hopefully. The Christmas tree that Jono had insisted on buying and decorating stood in front of the windows overlooking the street. The glow from strings of colorful, blinking lights was reflected in Wade’s brown eyes.
The eighteen-year-old fledgling fire dragon had filled out quite a bit since August when Patrick and Jono had rescued him from Tezcatlipoca, an Aztec god who owned the Omacatl Cartel. He was still lean though, courtesy of a high metabolism, and a walking bottomless pit for a stomach.
Technically, Wade was legally an adult, but mentally and emotionally he still needed a lot of support after what he’d been through. Wade had a lot of lingering issues that stemmed from being forced to fight to the death to stay alive since he was fourteen. That sort of trauma wasn’t easily overcome without help.
Three months of biweekly therapy visits paid out of Patrick’s own pocket had given Wade somewhere safe to channel his emotions over what he’d endured. Jono’s paycheck covered most of the food for all of them even though Wade didn’t live with them. Wade had put on weight and looked like a normal teenager these days rather than a starved, half-feral kid.
“Did you eat dinner?” Patrick asked.
“He ate,” Jono said, going into the kitchen to put the pizza box on the counter. “Made him spag bol.”
“Yeah, but I’m hungry again. You’re out of snacks,” Wade complained. “My cupboard here is empty.”
“If you didn’t devour a week’s worth of snacks in a single day, maybe you’d have some left over.” Patrick dug into one of the grocery bags and pulled out a box of Pop-Tarts, which he threw at Wade. “Don’t touch my pizza.”
Wade caught the box and tore into it, pulling out a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts. He ripped it open and stuffed one into his mouth to take a bite, never taking his eyes off the werecreatures. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
“A headache,” Patrick replied as he followed Jono into the kitchen.
Patrick set the wet grocery bags on the floor to deal with later. While Jono went to get everyone situated, Patrick grabbed six glasses from the cupboard and filled them with water. A couple of slices of white bread was all that was left in the bag on top of the refrigerator, but it was enough to parcel out into six pieces.
Patrick carried everything out to the dining table in two trips, lining up the glasses and dropping a piece of bread near each one. He gestured at the offering. “Be welcome.”
The werecreatures didn’t move, not until Jono cleared his throat. “We’re not discussing anything until you lot accept hospitality. If you decline, you can leave.”
The woman and man—alphas of their respective packs, Patrick assumed—stepped forward to pass out the glasses and bread to their people.
Hospitality greetings were binding welcomes that protected a person’s hearth and home. Breaking the welcome meant the transgressor was never able to cross the threshold and enter the home again. Patrick could feel the threshold wrapped around the apartment react to the intent of the act, magic prickling against the shields he still had up. The werecreatures seemed oblivious to the subtle power.
“You got this?” Patrick asked Jono.
“Go eat your pizza, Pat.”
Patrick retreated to the kitchen and popped open the pizza box. He half listened to the conversation happening in the other room, but most of his attention was on his dinner. The pizza was still warm, and Patrick chewed his way through two pieces before slowing down long enough to grab a plate. Piling two more slices onto it, he carried the plate out of the kitchen.
Wade had raised the volume on the television a little, attention focused on the hockey game. It must have been a West Coast game to be broadcasted so late.
“Did you finish your homework?” Patrick wanted to know.
“Yes,” Wade said, eyes glued to the flat-screen television.
Jono paused in whatever he was discussing with the two packs and said, “Wade.”
“What? I finished!”
Patrick snorted. “Finished putting the homework away or actually doing it?”
“It’s an essay, and it’s not due until next week.”
“Do your homework,” Patrick and Jono said in unison.
Wade scowled and reached for the remote to turn off the television. He dragged his backpack onto the couch with a loud, obnoxious sigh. Patrick rolled his eyes at the dramatics of it all.
Sage Beacot, the fourth member of their pack, had helped Wade enroll in the Manhattan Educational Opportunity Center out of the Borough of Manhattan Community College. They’d started him off in the Introduction to High School Equivalency course that would lead into the HSE Diploma course. Wade hadn’t finished high school due to running away at the age of fourteen and being subsequently kidnapped. He was basically starting over from scratch, and they were all determined to support his efforts.
Even though he was a dragon, Wade still thought of himself as mostly human and wanted to do human things. Patrick and Jono had both agreed Wade was better off going to school than working a low-wage job or joining the military. Getting Wade to focus was easier on some days than on others. They had better luck if he was here visiting or sleeping over at their place rather than staying at his own apartment. He didn’t live with them, because Patrick knew the importance of having your own space after surviving something that should have killed you.
The one-bedroom apartment Wade called home in the East Village wasn’t technically part of their territory, but Patrick had made it clear that Wade was pack and under their protection. Marek Taylor, a tech billionaire who owned the PreterWorld social media company and was the United States’ one true seer, had covered Wade’s rent for a full year. It was one less thing Patrick had to worry about.
Taking another bite of pizza, Patrick wandered over to where Jono was huddled with the two packs at their dining table. The table was circular, but the two packs had still managed to stay separated around it. Jono sat on a chair between them, listening to their varied arguments about who owned what territory on a single street in the Bronx.
Territory in large metropolitan cities was almost always measured in blocks rather than square miles. Packs claimed territory through agreements or fights, allowing pass-through rights to other packs if the rivalry wasn’t huge. Borders were expanded or lost one house at a time, and that seemed to be the case here, mostly perpetuated by a newly arrived independent werecreature renting a home on the corner. Which meant Marco’s Escorpión pack had encroached on Letitia’s Gold pack, and no one was happy.
“Asking the independent to give up their miniscule territory on the corner isn’t an option. Have they ever gone before the other god pack about territory other than during the initial move into the Bronx?” Jono said.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Letitia said.
“Fine. I’ll take their territory into consideration even though they aren’t represented here.”
“If they want their territory, then they should be here. They aren’t, so I don’t see why they matter,” Marco retorted.
Jono raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask them to come with you?”
The silence from both packs was indicative of a resounding no. Patrick finished his third slice of pizza. Before starting on his fourth, Patrick flicked his fingers over the wet Henley stretched across Jono’s shoulders, sending a drying charm coursing through Jono’s clothes. Steam puffed up from his clothes and shoes. Jono tilted his head toward Patrick in silent thanks.
Patrick didn’t do the same for himself, because he had plans to shower with Jono the second everyone left.
“You came to me, not Estelle and Youssef,” Jono pointed out. “My pack doesn’t decide shit the way they do. Which means we’re not going to deny someone their right to territory just because they aren’t present and didn’t know to be present. That’s not a game we play.”
“We?” Letitia asked carefully, gaze flickering Patrick’s way.
“We,” Jono stated in a hard voice. “Patrick co-leads our pack. You have a problem with that, then the door is right behind you.”
Patrick took another bite of his pizza and stared them down. The uncomfortable silence lasted a few more seconds before they went back to arguing their respective cases before Jono. Patrick finished his slice of pizza and was contemplating a fifth when his phone rang.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered. He set the plate down and wiped his fingers clean on his jeans before pulling his phone out of his pocket to answer it. “Collins. Line and location are not secure.”
“Make yourself secure,” Special Agent in Charge Henry Ng replied.
Patrick headed for the master bedroom. He closed the door behind him and used his finger to write out a silence ward on the wood. He pushed his magic out of his tainted soul and into the ward, letting static fill the bedroom. The world went quiet around him. All the werecreatures in the other room wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation he was about to have.
Wade could, because magic didn’t work on dragons, but the teenager knew better than to talk about what he overheard around people who weren’t pack.
“Secured, sir,” Patrick said. “Is this about the kappas? I turned in my report.”
“No. This is different. We got a report of a missing child.”
“That’s usually a police matter, not federal, unless it crosses state lines.”
“It becomes ours when it’s believed the child was replaced by a changeling.”
Patrick banged his forehead lightly against the door a couple of times. Crossing the veil between worlds definitely put a case within federal jurisdiction. “Gods fucking damn it. I hate dealing with the fae. Are you sure?”
“The PCB forwarded the case at the couple’s request. They want an agent to take their statement, and they want it done immediately.”
“Tonight? Sir, if it’s a changeling, the kid will still be there tomorrow morning.”
“Tonight,” Henry said firmly. “I know you just got off the clock, but I need you to take this case. The family involved is the Wisterias.”
Patrick banged his forehead against the door one more time for good measure. “Well, fuck.”
The Wisterias were a rich, powerful blueblood family of witches and warlocks, who had cornered the potions market during the Gilded Age. They considered their conservative family its own coven, who only admitted new members when those new people married into the family. The Wisterias were politically and magically well connected, having supported some of the more xenophobic policies and candidates the government had put forth over the years.
Patrick was not looking forward to dealing with them.
“What’s the address?” he asked. Henry rattled it off and Patrick committed it to memory. “Let them know I’m on my way.”
“They’ll be informed.”
Henry ended the call. Patrick sighed tiredly before dragging his hand over the sigil on the door to break up his magic. The silence ward faded away, sound returning to his ears. Patrick looked down at his damp clothes and scuffed combat boots and made a face. Not the sort of clothes he should probably meet the Wisterias in, but if he was going back into the storm tonight, he wasn’t getting two outfits rained on.
Yanking open the bedroom door, Patrick headed back to the dining area, surprised to see the packs had disappeared. Jono still sat at the dining table, staring blankly at the opposite wall where they’d hung a watercolor print of the London skyline.
“Did they leave or are they coming back?” Patrick asked.
Jono blinked, looking over at him. “They’re gone. They accepted my decision.”
“Which was?”
“An equal reduction of territory on the street to compensate for the independent weregrizzly, and one pack dinner a month to work out a possible alliance between the three.”
“Sounds fair.”
“We’ll see if they accept it or turn to Estelle and Youssef.”
“If they came to you, I doubt they’ll run to those two.”
“Maybe. I think they’re mine,” Jono said slowly. “I think when I gave the order for Nicholas to change form in the challenge ring, those two alphas shifted as well. So maybe they’ll abide.”
“Yours, huh?” He hadn’t been present that day in August when Jono had left to meet with the god pack alphas and came back having claimed Sage as part of their pack. He couldn’t say he minded the results. “Then maybe you’re right and they will listen.”
Jono shrugged, getting to his feet. “What was your call about?”
Patrick sighed. “I have a case. I need to go interview someone.”
“Right now? In this weather? Please tell me it’s not those bloody water bastards again.”
“The kappas? Nah, that case finished today. Something different. There’s a missing child.”
“If you’re this busy when Gerard gets here, I don’t know when you’ll have the time to see him.”
“I’ll make time.” Patrick smiled crookedly. “I have to, remember?”
Captain Gerard Breckenridge was Patrick’s former commanding officer and leader of the Hellraisers, Patrick’s old Special Forces team. It’d been over three years since Patrick last wore the Mage Corps uniform, but Gerard would never hold that against him.
Gerard and a couple other teammates Patrick had fought with were taking a few days out of their leave to come to New York. Part of that reason was to make good on a promise to have Patrick buy them all drinks and to check up on him. Mostly, they were coming to meet with him about the off-the-record mission General Noah Reed had assigned all of them. The three-star Army general—who was a fire dragon in human form—hadn’t let Patrick’s lack of uniform stop him from handing out orders and expecting to be obeyed.
The Morrígan’s staff, once thought locked away in the United States’ Repository in Area 51, had gone missing during the Thirty-Day War three and a half years ago—or so that was what Odin’s ravens had led Patrick to believe. While gods were known to lie, Patrick knew in his gut they weren’t lying about this.
An audit on the staff after Patrick’s meeting with Reed in August proved it was missing. No one knew who had it. No one knew for certain who had stolen it in the first place, though most laid the blame on Ethan Greene and the Dominion Sect. Ethan’s quest to claim a godhead had nearly destroyed Manhattan back in summer. His desire for power was a dangerous thing that Patrick was intimately familiar with.
All anyone knew was that the staff—and whatever magic a war goddess had bestowed upon it—could not end up in Ethan Greene’s hands.
The Hellraisers had been tasked with finding the weapon, as had Special Agent Nadine Mulroney and several other small groups of federal agents within the Preternatural Intelligence Agency. Patrick’s best friend had been read in on the mission before he had because Nadine was PIA.
Patrick didn’t blame General Reed for keeping the SOA out of the loop despite equal control of the Repository shared between the two agencies and branch of military. SOA Director Setsuna Abuku was still trying to clean house at their agency.
At the end of the day, Ethan was his father, and Patrick had a soul debt owned by a different goddess that said this was his problem above all others who might lay claim to it.
Patrick was looking forward to seeing his old team again, he only wished it was under better circumstances.
“If you gotta leave, can I have the rest of your pizza?” Wade asked. “I’m hungry.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “You’re always hungry.”
Jono leaned down to kiss him, lips dry and warm against his own. “I’ll wait up for you.”
“I don’t know how long this interview will take.”
“Like I said.” Jono nipped at his mouth, sending a shiver down Patrick’s spine. “I’ll wait up.”
After months of coming home to Jono, it still felt like a revelation some days. Despite the soulbond tying them together, Patrick was learning to believe that Jono stayed not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
“See you later,” Patrick said.
He left the apartment, only pausing long enough to retrieve his umbrella from the bin on the landing where they stored them. Walking down the stairs, Patrick headed back into the storm.
Saturday Series Spotlight
Hailey Turner is big city girl who spoils her cats rotten and has a demanding day job that she loves, but not as much as she loves writing. She’s been writing since she was a young child and enjoys reading almost as much as creating a new story. Hailey loves stories with lots of action, gritty relationships, and an eventual HEA that satisfies the heart.
EMAIL: haileyturnerwriter@gmail.com
A Ferry of Bones & Gold #1
All Souls Near & Nigh #2
A Crown of Iron & Silver #3
Soulbound Series
