A Veiled & Hallowed Eve

by Hailey Turner

  They hadn’t spoken, only texted and emailed, because Patrick still couldn’t wrap his head around the enormity of being able to make contact with his mother’s family after all these years. When the courts had changed his last name from Greene to Collins, it had effectively severed his past. Over the years, Setsuna had made it clear he couldn’t contact them for his own safety, and he’d accepted that order.

  She had never said why, and he always thought it was at the behest of the gods. Only now he couldn’t be sure, and he wasn’t in the mood for an interrogation.

  “I’m seeing her next week,” Patrick said, stepping away from the table.

  Setsuna frowned, and he wasn’t sure if the worry in her eyes was for him or the situation unfolding around them. “Be careful.”

  “You should probably take your own advice. You’re the one she’s pissed at.”

  Setsuna’s signature was on the government documents in his juvenile file, accepting Patrick as her ward. She’d kept silent for over two decades about his status, and from what he’d gleaned by the few interviews Eloise had done over the last month or so where Patrick was concerned, his grandmother’s wrath was focused squarely on Setsuna.

  Ethan might get her hate, but Setsuna got her fury, which was something to witness in interviews coming from an octogenarian.

  Wade tugged on Patrick’s sleeve, easily hauling him along. “Let’s go. I want to get dinner before we get on the plane. The vending machine choices here were crap.”

  “You were supposed to stay put,” Patrick reminded him.

  “I did! I stayed put in the Pentagon.”

  “There’s a car and driver waiting for you out front. Have a safe flight home,” Setsuna said.

  Patrick nodded his thanks and then spent the next ten minutes herding Wade out of the Pentagon. When they finally stepped outside the main entrance, visitor passes turned in to the appropriate people, it was raining, the late-afternoon sky dark with storm clouds.

  “I thought it wasn’t supposed to rain again today?” Wade asked as he peered through the downpour for their promised ride to the airport.

  Patrick stared at the clouds, unease settling in his gut. “Weather changes.”

  He could only hope the storm wouldn’t follow them back to New York.

  3

  Jono looked up from wiping down the bar counter as a familiar heartbeat cut through the buzz of conversation. He caught a glimpse of Patrick’s dark red hair in the crowd of werecreatures, magic users, and a few fae filling Tempest. He caught Sage’s eye and nodded at the seat she’d been saving at the bar for him.

  “Pat’s here,” he said.

  Sage lifted her designer tote bag off the seat in question and hung it on the hook under the bar counter. Seconds later, Patrick slipped free of the crowd, hauling himself onto the empty barstool. He and Wade had flown back home from DC last night, and Jono had been the one to pick them up. An early week, out-of-state meeting didn’t mean Patrick was taking time off from work. He’d been working out of the SOA field office downtown but had promised to make the Wednesday night pack meeting.

  “Hey,” Patrick said. “How’s it going?”

  Jono set a glass of Macallan 18 Year down in front of him. “Busy.”

  Jono had already presided over nearly two dozen small territory issues amongst the packs. Keeping the boundaries updated between packs that had switched loyalty from Estelle Walker and Youssef Khan’s god pack to theirs early on and those who reluctantly came under their protection and command after the challenge fight in Central Park was a headache on the best of days.

  Fenrir made sorting out trouble amongst the packs easier. Having an animal-god patron riding his soul and capable of knowing the intent of the werecreatures who showed throat before him made it clear who would ultimately cause trouble in the long run. Jono and Patrick had already barred three packs from New York City after they won the challenge fight. That wasn’t even counting the god pack members who had either fled the city or been arrested.

  Estelle and Youssef might be dead, and Patrick’s ties to the werecreature community might have upended the cases against the pair, but the government was still investigating their mess. Jono had been interviewed half a dozen times since the end of August by the federal government. Sage had worked with Danai Belvedere, their previous criminal defense attorney, to help guide his responses.

  They weren’t in the clear and wouldn’t be for a long while yet. Jono and Patrick might hold New York City as their territory, but that didn’t mean all the packs within it liked each other or them. Territory disputes weren’t just going to disappear because they took charge, but the hostility had definitely dampened a bit in the face of Fenrir’s presence.

  The traditional god pack territory up in Hamilton Heights remained empty as of now. Jono and Patrick weren’t leaving their flat in Chelsea, and in the future, when other god pack members eventually joined them, they’d need someplace to house those members. A four-member god pack, even one backed by a god, wouldn’t be strong enough to handle all the problems a territory this size brought. But growing their god pack was at the bottom of their list and would remain there until they dealt with the issues of Ethan, the Dominion Sect, and Patrick’s soul debt.

  Patrick sipped at his whiskey, turning a little to scan the bar. Jono took a moment to clean up his area while Patrick settled in. They’d agreed some weeks ago to conduct most of their god pack meetings in public. The transparency was needed after the secretive and brutal way Estelle and Youssef had ruled over the packs for years.

  It helped that Patrick’s past was now out in the open. Some things they still couldn’t talk about, like their soulbond, but many of the secrets they’d been forced to keep no longer needed to be hidden.

  That didn’t make ruling easier.

  “I have tacos,” Emma Zhang announced as she claimed the empty stool on the other side of Marek Taylor.

  Marek kept tapping away at his mobile, scowling at the screen. “Good, because I’m starving.”

  “Then put away work and eat.”

  Jono stepped away to pour a couple of drinks for some customers. When he returned, Emma handed him a Styrofoam container, which he took with a quick smile.

  “Ta,” he said.

  Patrick had already demolished one of the street tacos in his container. Jono flipped open the lid on his own dinner and picked up a carnitas one.

  “Any new sightings of hunters?” Patrick asked around a mouthful of food.

  “New Jersey,” Emma mumbled, wiping a bit of salsa off her chin with one finger.

  “Eh, it’s Jersey. That’s not our problem.”

  “Spoken like a true New York City transplant,” Leon Hernandez said as he sidled up beside Jono to pull a beer from the refrigerator under the back counter.

  “They’ll become our problem soon enough. Bet you anything,” Sage said.

  Patrick snorted. “I know better than to bet against you.”

  “The hunters are still a problem we need to keep an eye on,” Jono said pointedly.

  He’d prefer the bastards all be murdered if they stepped one foot inside their territory. After what had happened to Patrick with Andras, Jono had no interest in mercy when it came to the Krossed Knights and other hunter groups. He was very much in the camp of kill first, leave the bodies where they lie when it came to demons these days.

  Patrick’s scent took a slight dip toward anxiousness before leveling out. His damaged soul and magic left a bitter edge to his scent, one most people didn’t like. It had never bothered Jono, but what was new was how the scent was more constant than it used to be.

  When Patrick had lost the shield anchors, he’d lost the ability to keep up permanent personal shields without draining himself dry. That meant he only shielded when he had to. The change meant Jono could parse his emotions easier than in months past. Patrick was still uncomfortable with the pack reading his emotional state on a constant basis, and Jono tried not to intrude too much.


  When it came to talk of demons and hunters, Jono wanted Patrick to know he wasn’t alone. Patrick still blamed himself for the wounds Jono had taken in the challenge ring at Andras’ hands in Patrick’s body. The distinction there was black and white to Jono, but getting Patrick to believe that was still a struggle.

  “We still have our alliances with the Night Courts and the fae,” Patrick said.

  Sage sighed. “For now.”

  With only a couple of weeks until Samhain, most of their time was caught up in trying to prepare for a fight they knew was coming; they just didn’t know the full parameters of what it would look like. Where and when and how were all terrible unknowns that left everyone stressed-out and trying to guard all sides, not knowing if it would be enough.

  Jono was in agreement with Patrick about New York City becoming ground zero. It’s why, when they’d asked for support from other god packs, they’d instructed all volunteers to come here and nowhere else.

  Leon elbowed him to get his attention, offering up a beer. Jono took it with a nod of thanks, his tacos now finished. He pried the cap off the bottle and tossed the bit of metal into the bin.

  “The alliances will hold through Samhain. That’s what was promised, and it includes the covens,” Jono said.

  Emma pointed her fourth taco at him. “I still don’t know how you pulled that off.”

  Jono shrugged. “The Crescent Coven was willing to work with us after the fight in Brooklyn. The Wisteria Coven lost their clout after the bollocks they pulled with the Dominion Sect, so any pushback has been minimal.”

  They still didn’t know what the exact rite was that had been performed in the Ritz-Carlton the night of the challenge fight in Central Park. All they knew was that Cernunnos had stolen Patrick’s blood to perform the spell after drawing life out of every park in the five boroughs and breaking through the cliff roses barrier laid down by the Greek gods last year.

  The fallout within the covens was a realignment of power that Jono couldn’t follow and didn’t much care about outside the fact that it gave his pack more support. The Crescent Coven worshipped Hera, and as much as he loathed gods, he at least knew that Greek goddess was on their side of the fight. The Wisteria Coven was not, as proven by their dodgy decisions.

  With Patrick’s federal standing still on shaky ground, even with his badge returned, he hadn’t been able to oversee the Ritz-Carlton case, only review the files after the fact under the auspices of the joint task force. The cleanup by the Dominion Sect that time had been far more thorough than the one that had happened in Chicago earlier in the year. Still, they knew the rite had to be a fertility one, but the underlying spellwork was unknown.

  That they’d stolen Patrick’s blood to do it was a worrisome connection. Jono knew Patrick’s soul was still somehow tied to Hannah’s. He’d blocked it as much as he could, unable to risk opening himself up in that way. Jono only hoped their soulbond was strong enough to override a frayed and dying tie to keep Patrick safe.

  Trying to plan for the inevitable without knowing the playing field left Jono anxious and worried in a way he wasn’t used to. For now, they could only shore up their outside support and hope it would be enough, even if he had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t be.

  “Any news from the government?” Marek asked, finally putting down his mobile.

  “Nothing of note,” Patrick said carefully. “Have you seen anything?”

  Marek shook his head, mouth twisting wryly. “The future is a black hole right now.”

  It was a far cry from the time an angel had taken over his mind and used him as a temporary prophet to issue a warning. It cost him every shade of blue, and the vision of a graveyard he’d come away with was a sinister warning Jono didn’t ever want to come to pass.

  “Wade wanted me to ask about the weather,” Sage said before taking another sip of her wine.

  Wade wasn’t there tonight because he was underage, and there were too many eyes on Tempest these days to sneak him in. Jono was the owner of the bar now and bound by the drinking age laws of his adopted country. Wade couldn’t be present for a meeting in Tempest without risking the alcohol license.

  “It’s raining,” Leon said dryly.

  “He said it feels off.”

  Patrick made a face, the expression half-hidden behind his whiskey glass. “He mentioned the weather yesterday in DC. It seemed fine to me.”

  But Wade was a fledgling fire dragon, sensitive to the natural world in ways he was still learning to understand. If he said the weather felt off, that was another problem they’d have to keep an eye on.

  Sage propped her elbow on the bar counter to rest her chin in her hand. “Maybe we reach out to some weather witches, then? See if it’s a reactionary storm?”

  Patrick shrugged. “The weather would be worse if it was a reactionary storm. Like a hurricane stalled over land.”

  “Not much we can do about the weather, then.”

  “Plenty of stuff we can do about everything else.” Jono caught Patrick’s eye. “When do we meet with the Night Courts?”

  “Saturday evening,” Patrick said with a long-suffering sigh. “I told Wade he didn’t have to go, but he insisted he wanted to be there.”

  “Are we all going?” Sage asked.

  “We can manage that meeting if you’ll manage the fae.”

  “Deal.”

  Jono gazed at the crowd, noticing the looks thrown their way, which meant people were waiting to come up and chat. He raised an eyebrow at Patrick. “We still have some pack business to get through. You all right with taking over for a bit?”

  Patrick nodded. “Yeah. Whoever’s next, let’s do this.”

  Someone broke free of the crowd, a tall woman who was almost immediately joined by another woman. They scowled at each other, but when Patrick turned around on his stool to hear their grievance, they kept their voices even.

  Jono knew the packs still weren’t used to how he and Patrick governed—which was as fairly as they could, and within public view. They didn’t play games, didn’t play favorites, and absolutely refused to require any pack alpha to fight another to win what they wanted. Every rule that Estelle and Youssef had built up over the years had been immediately jettisoned upon their taking over.

  That fairness was a problem for some of the packs, specifically the ones who had prospered under Estelle and Youssef’s rule, but Jono and Patrick weren’t changing the way they did things. Anyone who had a problem with their orders could piss off.

  Shaking his thoughts away, Jono focused on work. He kept the drinks flowing with his bartenders on shift, stopping to chat here and there with werecreatures who needed his opinion. Both the upper and lower levels of the bar were open, and it was busy for a Wednesday. The crowd started to thin out the closer it got to midnight.

  Jono wasn’t staying to close up, no longer obligated to now that he owned the place, but he still stuck around on some nights. Patrick had to work tomorrow though, and he’d been hiding yawns behind a water glass for the past hour.

  Jono put the last rack of clean glasses onto the shelf and turned around. “Ready to go?”

  Patrick shoved himself off the barstool. “Yeah. I’m parked a block away.”

  Jono made his way to the employees-only room near the back to retrieve the jacket he’d worn to work earlier. He’d taken the subway, despite feeling uncomfortable inside the tunnels. The city was almost finished fixing the span of tracks that had been damaged when a subway train was derailed by demons and magic in August. The notoriety that came with his new position meant getting a taxi or a ride-share pickup was nearly impossible these days.

  He shrugged on the jacket, signed off on a couple of restocking forms, and headed back into the main area. Patrick was already waiting for him by the front entrance, mobile in hand as he thumbed through some emails.

  “I think we took care of everything that needed to be dealt with tonight,” Patrick said.

  Jono leaned down to give him a quick kiss
on the mouth. “Never thought being a god pack alpha would require giving so much therapy. I’m not licensed for that.”

  “You’re licensed for alcohol.”

  “That’s not a fix.”

  Patrick smiled crookedly. “I know. It probably wouldn’t be like this if we were taking over from anyone else.”

  The dearth of problems they needed to fix and the people they were responsible for clamoring for attention was exhausting but hopefully not insurmountable.

  Jono grabbed Patrick’s hand and guided him out of the bar. The cold wind slapped him in the face when they made it outside, and he ducked his head against the strong breeze. The wind had picked up since he’d started work earlier, blowing fiercely over the street and creeping inside his jacket. He followed where Patrick’s feet led them, enjoying what passed for quiet in a major city.

  “When do we meet with your grandmother?” Jono asked, finally able to broach the subject. It was one thing to chat about pack issues in public, quite another to delve into Patrick’s past so openly.

  Patrick shrugged one shoulder with a tight motion. “Next Wednesday. We’ll need to designate Sage as proxy if you insist on going.”

  Jono tightened his hold on the other man. “What part of we did you miss? I’m going, Pat.”

  Patrick snorted softly, but he smelled relieved rather than annoyed, and Jono took that as a win. Jono tugged Patrick closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. They didn’t talk on the walk to the Mustang. Jono had one eye on the street around them when the sharp tang of ozone cut through the air, driven by the wind. It filled his nose, coating the back of his throat, the warning nearly making him gag.

  Patrick jerked to a hard stop, body stiffening. “Fuck.”

  Jono’s attention snapped to the pair of large black ravens perched on top of the Mustang, talons scratching the paint, staring at them with eerily intelligent eyes. Corvids weren’t strangers to the city’s streets, but Huginn and Muninn were something else entirely.