A Veiled & Hallowed Eve
Soulbound VII
Hailey Turner
©2021 Hailey Turner
All Rights Reserved
Cover design by AngstyG LLC.
Professional Beta Reading by Leslie Copeland: [email protected]
Edited by One Love Editing
Proofing by Lori Parks: [email protected]
Proofing by Jenni Lea at LesCourt Author Services
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Welcome to the Worlds of Hailey Turner
Urban Fantasy
Soulbound
Science Fiction Romance
Metahuman Files
To my mother
for being the strongest person I ever knew.
I love you and I miss you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
GLOSSARY
Author’s Notes
Connect with Hailey
Other Works By Hailey Turner
1
SOA Special Agent Patrick Collins woke up before dawn on a Tuesday in October with his hands wrapped around his lover’s throat.
“Fuck,” Patrick rasped out, body shaking as he jerked his fingers away from Jonothon de Vere’s warm skin.
Jono, his own hands already locked around Patrick’s wrists, didn’t let go. In the dull gray darkness of their bedroom, Jono’s wolf-bright blue eyes reflected what little light was coming through the edges of the curtain.
“It’s all right,” Jono said, his voice quiet and calm.
Patrick could barely hear him over the pounding of his heart. Leaning over Jono, the blankets twisted around them and pulled up from the mattress, he had no recollection of moving, of reaching for Jono.
Of choking him.
The cold sweat sliding down Patrick’s skin made him shiver as he tried to pull away, the lingering traces of his nightmare still trying to take root.
“The fuck it is. I’ve hurt you enough.”
Jono made a wordless sound that vibrated through his chest. He let go of Patrick’s left wrist to reach for the small lamp sitting on his nightstand. Switching it on illuminated their bedroom with a soft glow, and Patrick blinked hard, turning his face away from the light. Jono gently pulled Patrick closer. He stiffened, unwilling to be moved, but Jono was nothing if not determined. Patrick soon found himself lying on his side, wrapped up in Jono’s arms, trying to calm his breathing.
“You had a nightmare,” Jono murmured, searching Patrick’s eyes.
“No shit.”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
Patrick barked out a harsh laugh, dragging a hand over his face to wipe away some sweat. “I had my hands wrapped around your throat.”
“Barely. You couldn’t hurt me like that, and you didn’t, so stop bloody thinking you did something wrong.”
Patrick shifted in Jono’s arms to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Jono settled his right hand over Patrick’s scarred chest, fingers splayed wide. He could only feel portions of Jono’s touch, the scar tissue and nerve damage inflicted by a soultaker all those years ago never healing all the way despite Persephone’s intercedence.
Fucking demons.
Patrick squeezed his eyes shut and carefully curled his hand over Jono’s—the one Andras had blown off with an attack spell. Jono could argue all he liked that it wasn’t Patrick’s fault, but it had been his magic the Great Marquis of Hell had used. Jono wasn’t an amputee solely because of the werevirus running through his veins.
He took a breath, then another, trying to steady his nerves and shove the traces of that horrible nightmare where Andras was in control to the back of his mind. Less than a day spent with that fucking demon, and the fallout of it was insidiously subtle. Emotional wounds were a lot harder to heal than physical ones sometimes. His VA-assigned therapist kept reminding him of that, but Patrick knew he wasn’t really in the headspace to hear it right now.
Patrick didn’t think he’d ever stop feeling guilty for what he’d perpetuated against Jono, even if he knew, rationally, it wasn’t his fault. But rationality had no place in matters of the heart, and Patrick didn’t know how to not carry that guilt.
“Hey, look at me.”
Patrick turned his head to the side and looked Jono in the eye. Jono tugged his hand free from Patrick’s grip, shifting so he was the one leaning over this time. He dipped his head, lips brushing over Patrick’s, the touch gentle, nothing like the horror of the nightmare taking up space in his head.
“I’m right here,” Jono murmured. “And so are you.”
Patrick chased after Jono’s mouth, getting a longer, deeper kiss for his efforts. “Not for much longer.”
He had a flight to catch to Washington, DC, at 0900, and Jono wasn’t coming with him. He’d wanted to, but things were still a mess with all the packs in New York City. One of them needed to stay behind to handle anything that came up. Samhain was two and a half weeks away, and they were scrambling to shore up their defenses.
“Stay out of the Library of Congress this time,” Jono said as he pushed himself to a sitting position.
“Like I have time to read these days.”
“Pat.”
“Okay, okay. No going back to the scene of the crime.”
Back in August, he and Sage Taylor, their god pack’s dire, had gone with Captain Gerard Breckenridge to locate and steal a book Ashanti had left behind in some other century. They’d found it, but then soultakers had found them, and they’d only escaped with the help of gods.
Somehow, Patrick hadn’t been blamed by the public for that mess.
Patrick ran his tongue over the back of his teeth. He wanted to get the taste of morning breath and toxic guilt out of his mouth. Whiskey would help.
“I’ll get your coffee started,” Jono said, as if he were reading Patrick’s mind.
Patrick grunted and rolled out of bed. He needed to shower off the nightmare and make himself mostly presentable for the joint task force meeting ahead. Since it had been agreed by multiple agencies that Patrick was a designated target of Ethan Greene and the Dominion Sect, he wasn’t obligated to wear a suit. He wasn’t going to do a media walk in front of cameras when he got there, and suits weren’t the best kind of clothing to fight in. The one he’d worn to the Library of Congress had gone into the trash.
Patrick hauled himself under the spray of hot water in the shower and scrubbed himself clean. He didn’t take long because he wasn’t looking forward to waiting on standby with a teenage dragon if they missed the flight out. Airport food was usually disgusting, always expensive, and Patrick
only had so much money in his bank account right now to keep Wade Espinoza fed. At least they had pack tithes coming in every month now to help with that.
After he finished washing up, Patrick quickly got dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled. He strapped his gods-given dagger to his right thigh before holstering his semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol, shoving his badge into his back pocket.
The weight of the handgun wasn’t something he thought he’d get back. The handgun and his SOA badge had been taken from him when he’d been accused of Youssef Khan’s murder. The return of his job still felt temporary, and Patrick was bracing for the day he’d be relieved of his duty. He didn’t know what he’d do when that happened.
Maybe finally take that vacation that was owed to him if he survived.
Once he had his combat boots laced up, Patrick headed for the kitchen, where Jono was pouring just a little cream into a mug for him. Jono had his own mug, that of strong black tea, but he passed over Patrick’s coffee with a smile.
“Feel better?” Jono asked.
Patrick didn’t have his shields up, so he couldn’t lie, but he honestly didn’t want to. “Getting there.”
Some days, going through the motions was all he could do. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be anything but sharp once he got to DC.
Jono tugged him closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. They stood in the kitchen for a few minutes, leaning against each other and sipping their respective drinks. Their quiet moment together was interrupted by the sound of keys jangling in the lock to their apartment’s front door. The only people who had access to the brownstone in Chelsea was their pack, so Patrick didn’t immediately move.
“Do I smell coffee?” Wade asked as he came inside. “I want some.”
“I thought we were picking you up?” Patrick asked as he and Jono disentangled from each other and left the kitchen.
“I was playing video games all night, and then I got bored, so I decided to come over. I texted the group chat.”
Patrick groaned. “You’re not talking to anyone when we get to DC.”
Wade shrugged as he hurried to the kitchen to get some coffee. “Like I want to talk to any of the people there.”
Patrick couldn’t blame him.
“When is the meeting?” Jono asked as he sat on the couch.
“The afternoon,” Patrick said.
“The afternoon?” Wade exclaimed. “I could’ve been sleeping right now!”
“Sleep on the plane.”
“That’s barely a nap.”
“Then maybe next time you’ll know not to play video games so late before I need to make face time with the government.”
Wade walked out of the kitchen, slurping at his coffee. “Why are we getting there so early if the meeting isn’t until the afternoon?”
“I need to look over some files at the SOA headquarters first, and then I need to stop by Arlington.”
Jono eyed him. “Arlington?”
Patrick smiled wanly. “I have respects that need to be paid. I’m overdue.”
“Steer clear of the bars, yeah?” Jono asked gently.
“Not looking to get drunk.”
He had in the past, but that was then, and Patrick needed to be clearheaded today. Besides, Jono had taught him better habits over time.
Jono stared at him, not backing down. “Please?”
“No bars,” Patrick promised.
“There better not be any zombies,” Wade muttered before swallowing half his coffee in one burning gulp that didn’t bother him.
“Don’t tempt fate.”
“They’re assholes anyway.”
“Exactly why you shouldn’t tempt them.”
Wade scrunched up his nose before setting his coffee mug on the low table by the couch so he could tear open his packet of Pop-Tarts. “When are we leaving?”
“Soon.” Patrick eyed Wade’s jeans and T-shirt. “Where’s your jacket?”
“I don’t need one.”
“It’s October. Go grab a jacket from the closet in the guest bedroom,” Jono told him.
“I’m not cold,” Wade protested.
“You get to pretend it’s cold.”
Wade groaned but still went to get one. He and Sage had clothes stashed in their apartment for occasions like this. Wade being a fledgling fire dragon had to be reminded to act human some days. He was growing into his heritage and had come a long way emotionally from when he was rescued last year. Therapy and the support of the pack had slowly taught him to trust again, though that trust was limited to exactly three people.
Wade came out in a light jacket that had his favorite hockey team logo patch over the left chest area. His wavy, dark hair peeked out from beneath a beanie he’d found and was now wearing.
“Do they serve breakfast on the plane?” Wade asked.
Patrick sighed. “No.”
Jono quirked a smile at Patrick. “Let’s get you to the airport. You can feed him there.”
“Great. My wallet thanks you.”
Patrick drank the rest of his coffee in two big swallows and went to get his leather jacket with its embedded magic. The police had located it in the old god pack’s former territory in Hamilton Heights on their crime scene sweep after the challenge fight in Central Park. These days, Patrick wore the charmed jacket like armor, but the best protection he had was his pack. For all the uncertainty ahead, Patrick knew he wouldn’t face it alone.
It only took a few minutes to clean up and leave the apartment. Jono was driving, and it was early enough that traffic wasn’t too much of an issue. When they finally made it to the passenger drop-off zone in LaGuardia, Jono leaned across the console to kiss Patrick goodbye.
“I love you,” Jono said when he pulled away.
Patrick responded the only way he ever did these days. “I’ll come back.”
It was a promise he refused to break.
2
“Hear me out,” Wade said as they trekked over rain-soaked grass. “Hot dogs wrapped in paper American flags and sold from carts.”
Patrick shook his head as they walked between rows of white headstones that marked the graves in the section of Arlington National Cemetery for those who had died during the Thirty-Day War. “Food isn’t allowed in Arlington.”
“But it could be.”
“You come here to pay your respects, not have a picnic. That’s what I’m doing.”
“People leave food at graves all the time. It feeds their ancestors.”
“You leave food on some altars. You leave flowers at graves in this place.”
Wade shrugged but didn’t seem put out that his idea had been shot down. “If you say so.”
He sounded cheerful enough, even as he constantly scanned their immediate area. Ever since Wade had been left behind when Patrick was kidnapped from the US Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York back in August, he’d made it a point to stick close in public. Patrick didn’t argue with Wade about staying behind anymore since it was a fight he always lost.
Their morning flight in had been uneventful. Patrick’s first meeting of the day with Supernatural Operations Agency Director Setsuna Abuku at the agency’s headquarters had run a little long. Patrick had been forced to stop for lunch to feed Wade before coming here. Their afternoon meeting at the Pentagon awaited them, and Setsuna had assured Patrick that Wade would be given a visitor’s pass that would enable him to remain close.
“Ugh,” Wade said suddenly, lengthening his stride so that he pulled ahead of Patrick. “It’s that asshole.”
Patrick narrowed his eyes at a figure in the distance, standing within the rows they were walking between. He glanced over at the asphalt road down the hill and the unmarked black car parked there, the only vehicle to be seen.
“Guess our ride is here,” Patrick said.
“Could’ve got a taxi instead,” Wade muttered, scowling at the man coming into sharper focus.
“Taxis can’t get
past the Pentagon’s security gate.”
They came to a stop at the gravesite a minute later, and the man who waited for them there turned to look at them. Ever since his murder charge had been dismissed, Patrick had been dealing with the judgment of his peers by staring them down until they looked away first. He couldn’t do that with General Noah Reed. There was no winning a staring contest with a dragon in human form.
Unless it was Wade, and that was only if they threw food at him as a distraction.
“This isn’t where I thought you’d be when you requested a ride,” Reed said around the cigarette clamped between his teeth. His field uniform was hidden beneath an ankle-length black wool coat that didn’t appear to be military-issued.
Patrick’s jaw twitched. He fiddled with the last quarter in his jacket pocket, the metal warmed from being handled nonstop since he’d entered the hushed and warded grounds of the vast cemetery.
“Where did you think I’d be? A bar?” Patrick snorted. “I promised my pack I wouldn’t drink while out here.”
Reed removed the cigarette from between his lips, puffing out a long line of gray smoke. Patrick’s nose wrinkled slightly at the acrid scent that smelled nothing like nicotine which the cool breeze blew his way.
Wade glared at the three-star Army general, standing at an angle to keep an eye on both of them. Patrick could see his brown eyes flashing gold for a split second beneath his beanie. “Put that out. Don’t you know it’s rude to smoke in a cemetery?”
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