A Veiled & Hallowed Eve

by Hailey Turner

  “What do you lot want?” Jono growled.

  Muninn spread his wings, head cocked so the immortal could look at the night sky. Do you sense it, Vánagandr? The end is coming.

  Are you ready? Huginn asked.

  Odin’s ravens launched themselves into the sky without waiting for an answer. Jono followed their trajectory with unblinking eyes. Beyond the shadowy spots of darkness that were the pair of immortals, high above, what looked like sheet lightning flickered in the dark depths of the low-hanging clouds.

  Patrick shoved Jono toward the car, fear spiking in his scent. “Move.”

  “Is that—?” Jono began as Fenrir stirred deep in his soul.

  “Yes, so fucking move.”

  Patrick’s curt response got Jono moving. He hurriedly climbed into the passenger seat as Patrick got behind the wheel. The rumble of the engine starting couldn’t drown out the warning cries of the Sluagh as the terror of the Unseelie Court crossed the night sky above Manhattan, momentarily breaking free of the clouds before letting the storm hide their presence again.

  “We need to meet with the Dagda,” Jono said grimly.

  Patrick yanked on the steering wheel, pulling into the street, eyes on the sky and not the road. “I’ll have Sage get us on the mayor’s agenda tomorrow.”

  “What about tonight?”

  Patrick glanced at him, mouth drawn into a grim line. “Text the pack alphas. Tell everyone they need to stay indoors. I’ll call Casale and then Henry to let them know about the sighting. Not much else we can do.”

  “If the Sluagh are here, that means Medb is involved.”

  “I know.”

  Jono leaned back and kept his eyes on the sky and the flashes of lightning still burning through the dark. The Sluagh was a sign of war, and he wasn’t sure they were ready for what was coming.

  4

  City Hall was a bustle of people who gave Jono and Patrick quite a few double takes when they entered the security area, shaking rainwater off their umbrellas. Jono had quit hiding his eyes behind sunglasses some time ago, and the wolf-bright blue color, a mark of the god strain werevirus running through his veins, always drew attention.

  Jono was used to ignoring the stares and the whispers; he’d had years to learn how to turn the other cheek. Patrick’s expression wasn’t friendly in the least, and Jono wondered if maybe they should’ve stopped for more coffee along the way. What little sleep they’d gotten last night had been restless, and Patrick was always less murderous with caffeine in his system.

  “Might want to adjust your face,” Jono muttered, resting his hand on the small of Patrick’s back.

  “My face isn’t the one that needs adjusting,” Patrick said, not bothering to keep his voice low.

  Definitely should’ve gotten more coffee.

  They passed through the security checkpoint without hassle and were met by a young man who smelled human and looked as if he’d been impatiently waiting for them, judging by the unsubtle once-over he gave them. At least the bloke wasn’t an immortal, which was a welcome change from the last political aide they’d had to deal with when visiting the mayor.

  That aide had been Tisiphone, an Erinyes who’d been forcibly removed from the Dagda’s sphere of influence by Hermes and returned to face judgment for her actions before Hera and Zeus. Considering she’d been someone who had watched Jono be tortured last year, he had no sympathy for the punishment she most likely endured from the heads of the Greek pantheon.

  The Dagda, however, was another problem entirely.

  “Ah, there you are,” the Dagda greeted them when they finally made it to his spacious office past the receiving room, voice deep and booming in Jono’s ears. “You realize I had to rearrange my entire schedule to fit you in?”

  In his role as Mayor Doyle Ferbenn, the Celtic god was a tall, broad-shouldered man with curly hair more on the orange side of the ginger scale. His clothes were a flashier style than Jono cared for, favoring prints over dull monochrome colors. In this form, the Dagda was a distilled version of his true self, who had walked across the field beneath the Gap of Dunloe last winter. But gods in any form were dangerous, and Jono didn’t trust the immortal before them one bit.

  They said nothing until after the aide left the office and Patrick laid down a silence ward. His magic was sharp in Jono’s nose, nearly drowning out the burn of ozone that lingered around the immortal.

  “Dagda,” Patrick said, sounding polite enough. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency.”

  The Dagda leaned back in his plush leather seat, staring at them with inhuman eyes. He didn’t offer them a seat, but Jono and Patrick took one anyway.

  “We saw the Sluagh riding the leading edge of the storm last night,” Jono said.

  From what they could gather, if anyone had gone missing last night, their absence hadn’t been reported to the police yet. That wasn’t to say the Sluagh hadn’t dragged unsuspecting citizens into their deadly clutches. The reports would hit the news eventually, like they had last winter.

  The Dagda raised one thick eyebrow and made a low sound in the back of his throat. It was difficult to get a read on the god, but Jono thought he sounded curious. “Are you surprised? It is October. Samhain is close. The veil is ever thin at this time of the year.”

  “It’s not Samhain now,” Patrick pressed.

  “You marshal your forces. Why would the same not be said of your father and the hells that follow his lead?”

  Jono grimaced, hating to agree with a god. “We’ve heard nothing about Ethan or the Dominion Sect’s movements in recent weeks.”

  “As you say, that means nothing.”

  “We know that. But you interceded before—”

  “These are not the same circumstances.”

  “Aren’t they?” Patrick shot back.

  The Dagda’s presence filled the space around them, the sudden pressure a weight against Jono’s ribs. He didn’t flinch, and neither did Patrick, but he’d be lying if he said his heart didn’t speed up a tick.

  “Your debt is not paid,” the Dagda said in a voice like a storm-filled rushing river, crashing against their ears.

  “And when I pay it, what then?” Patrick leaned forward, hands clenched into fists on his knees. “When you stab someone, pulling out the knife doesn’t fix the wound left behind.”

  The Dagda smiled in a way that promised no comfort. “Then make sure the wound is deep enough to kill.”

  Jono settled his hand over Patrick’s fist. “What of the city? Can you issue a curfew?”

  “I’ve issued enough curfews in your favor lately. The public won’t appreciate another.”

  “Is that your polling numbers speaking?” Patrick asked snidely.

  “What excuse would I give to corral the public for the next couple of weeks before Samhain that they would believe?” The Dagda spread his hands, looking as far from apologetic as one could get. “We gods you see as myths are not who they believe in. Bring me evidence of a threat, one that the masses will understand, and then, perhaps, I can aid you in my capacity as mayor of this fine city.”

  Jono glared at the god. The thought of sacrificing people who could’ve been saved if inaction wasn’t the name of the bloody game made him furious. But gods did what was best for gods, and there was no arguing with that sort of stubbornness.

  “The Sluagh won’t be the last incursion, will they?” Patrick asked after a moment.

  The Dagda stared at them, the weight of his presence receding just a little. “What makes you think they were the first?”

  “Fuck,” Jono muttered, sharing a look with Patrick.

  The Dagda reached for his keyboard to tap at it, gaze flicking to the screen and whatever information was on it. “I have another meeting in ten minutes. Will that be all?”

  Patrick rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “The PCB and the SOA are aware of the Sluagh’s presence. You should probably have a backup plan that isn’t ignoring the problem.”

&nbs
p; The Dagda didn’t seem put out by that warning and merely waved them off. Jono followed Patrick out of the mayor’s office and into the hallway beyond the reception room.

  “Tell me you’re not voting for him next election,” Jono said as they walked back toward the bank of lifts.

  “If he’s still around? Fuck no,” Patrick replied.

  “What do you want to do?”

  Patrick scowled. “I’m not sure we can do anything until the Sluagh strike. Sage still has her meeting with Tiarnán today, so we’ll let her bring it up with him.”

  “All right.”

  They were waiting for the next available lift when the doors pinged open and disgorged someone neither of them expected. Giovanni Casale, Chief of the NYPD Preternatural Crimes Bureau, was in full uniform rather than a suit, which made Jono think he had a press engagement of some sort.

  Jono hadn’t seen Casale in person since the fallout from taking over the god pack territory. New Yorkers didn’t much care for the civil war that had exploded on their doorstep, but his pack had done their best to contain it with the reluctant help of the PCB, as ordered by the Dagda in his capacity as mayor. Casale’s favorability had taken a beating in public polls, but from what Jono had heard, the older man wasn’t in danger of losing his position.

  Yet.

  “Collins,” Casale said politely enough. “Jonothon. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Casale,” Patrick replied evenly. “Here to visit our favorite mayor?”

  “I take it you’ve already spoken to Ferbenn about what you saw last night?”

  “Made him move his schedule for us. He didn’t care about the sighting.”

  Casale glanced down the hallway in the direction they’d just come. “Reports of missing people are starting to come into the PCB. I can’t say all are attributed to the Sluagh, but it’s a good bet some can be tied to the damn things. Does the SOA know?”

  “The SOA and some of the other alphabet soup agencies are in the loop.”

  “We’ve warned all the packs, and we’re talking to the fae today,” Jono said.

  “Angelina is speaking to the high priests and priestesses of local covens about the problem,” Casale said.

  Angelina Casale was a priestess for the Crescent Coven and worked beneath Hera, who pretended to be that coven’s high priestess while basking in prayers. Jono was fairly certain that goddess was still ensconced in Greece with Zeus. Angelina had aided them briefly with their hunter problem back in August, and Jono was grateful for that. Whether or not she could muster solid support despite promises given remained to be seen.

  “That just leaves everyone else in the five boroughs not dialed into the preternatural or supernatural communities,” Patrick said. “Millions and millions of people.”

  Casale grimaced. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

  “And what do you know that you aren’t telling us?” Jono asked.

  “What makes you think you have the right to be privy to that information?”

  Patrick was no longer called upon by the PCB to aid in their cases. What cases Patrick could oversee were limited due to his ties to the preternatural community. It meant their information pool had shrunk, and that helped no one right now.

  “We’d like to think you know what’s at stake.”

  “Do I?”

  Patrick snorted, leaning around Casale to call another lift. “Don’t play dumb. You saw what happened in Brooklyn and Central Park. You saw the scene at the Ritz-Carlton. The Dominion Sect is everyone’s problem, so don’t be a fucking stranger if you learn something before the SOA. We need to know.”

  The soft chime of another lift arriving prompted Jono to push Patrick toward it, leaving Casale behind. Jono pressed the button for the lobby, both of them keeping quiet until they’d swapped one lift for another to get to the underground car park.

  “Will the joint task force do anything about it?” Jono asked once they were driving away from City Hall.

  Patrick snorted as the light ahead turned red, braking for it. “The Sluagh? I want to say yes, but the joint task force is more focused on Ethan and the Dominion Sect right now.”

  “This involves Ethan.”

  “Speaking to the fucking choir. Reed could be convinced. Setsuna wouldn’t throw up roadblocks. It’s everyone else that’s going to balk if I report back that there’s a bunch of hellish fae running rampant in New York City. They’d want more proof than what we saw.”

  “Because they don’t trust you?”

  Patrick tipped his head in Jono’s direction in a slight nod, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “And they won’t trust you.”

  Jono frowned, turning his attention to the road as the light turned green. “Fuck.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Patrick drove toward the SOA field office rather than back to their flat. He was working today, and that meant actually going in for meetings. Patrick double-parked in front of the SOA’s entrance when they finally arrived, and Jono leaned across the center console to pull him into a kiss.

  “I’m in Queens today,” Jono said when he pulled back.

  “Take Wade,” Patrick said, licking his lips.

  “I thought he had school?”

  “He’s taking a leave of absence for the rest of the month. Sage finally got it cleared with his advisors. She told me last night while you were pouring some drinks.”

  “Right, then. I’ll swing by and pick him up.”

  “He’ll want breakfast.”

  Jono leaned close and kissed Patrick one more time. “I’ll let him clean out a deli.”

  They both got out of the car and Jono took over the driver’s seat, not putting the car into drive until Patrick was inside the heavily warded building. Then he pulled into traffic, already ringing Wade.

  “Yeah?” Wade mumbled when he picked up.

  “I’m coming to get you,” Jono said.

  “Uh, now? I’m still in bed.”

  “Fifteen minutes. No excuses.”

  “That’s not enough time to eat breakfast!”

  “It’s enough time for you to shower. Clock is ticking. Get up.”

  Jono ended the call and sighed. It was going to be a long day.

  5

  Ginnungagap hadn’t changed much since the primordial void had slipped free of its walls to be commanded by Fenrir. Lucien’s club was still just as popular as ever on the nightlife circuit, even if no one could pinpoint him as the owner. If anyone managed to track a name through the layers of paperwork and shell companies, they’d discover one of Carmen’s aliases in lieu of him.

  The club was the public heart of Lucien’s territory in Manhattan. Patrick still didn’t know where Lucien’s Night Court rested during the day, and he doubted he’d ever find out. Despite everything going on, Lucien hadn’t closed the club for their meeting tonight. Appearances had to be kept up, and dinner had to walk through the doors.

  “If he tries to punch you, I’m biting off his hand,” Wade said as they approached the club.

  Patrick sighed heavily. “That would be considered an act of war by the Night Courts, so keep your teeth to yourself.”

  Wade scowled, tugging his beanie down low over his ears. “Lucien is an asshole.”

  “I’m not arguing that fact, but we still need his support.”

  The three of them weren’t so much guests of honor on a VIP list as they were the enemy to everyone who waited inside for them. But war had always made strange bedfellows.

  Patrick and Jono had reached out to Ashanti in September about bringing in more vampires for the fight ahead. The mother of all vampires had been mostly agreeable, but Patrick had no idea who she had chosen. They’d had no control over her decision, and he’d known better than to push for that information in advance.

  Lucien alone was a nightmare. Patrick knew there were several other master vampires in the country who, while not as historically infamous as Ashanti’s last directly sired child, still ra
ted high on the asshole scale.

  Patrick shivered a little as cold rain trickled down his neck. They’d been on the go all day before the storm hit, and their umbrellas were back at home. The rain wasn’t letting up anytime soon, and he didn’t like being out in the open right now, especially not with what might be riding this storm.

  “Could’ve maybe parked closer,” Jono mused, head ducked against the wind and rain as they half ran down the sidewalk.

  “And let everyone waiting for us know what my car looks like? Hell no,” Patrick said.

  There was a line of people huddling beneath umbrellas outside the main entrance to the club. A human servant in a heavy wool coat and wide umbrella stood guard at the door beside a tall, blonde vampire, whose lips peeled back in a snarl at their approach.

  “Irena,” Patrick said in greeting.

  “Go to VIP section,” the vampire ordered, not bothering to open the club door for them.

  Usually, they entered Ginnungagap through the side door in the adjacent alley during hours when the club wasn’t in full swing. Entering through the front was a bit of a novelty. Jono got to the door and hauled it open, ushering Patrick and Wade inside.

  Crossing the threshold made Patrick’s nerves tingle, a reaction to the lingering power in the walls. Ginnungagap might be held between Fenrir’s proverbial teeth right now, but the echo of it could still be felt where it once resided in the mortal world.

  The security checkpoint where everyone had to give up their holy items was manned by human servants loyal to Lucien’s Night Court. They knew Patrick, Jono, and Wade on sight and didn’t bother asking them to hand over items which would never leave their possession. Now that they were inside, Patrick could better make out the bass sound of the music being spun by a DJ.

  “You three look like drowned rats,” Carmen drawled from her spot in front of the counter, glamour dropped in favor of her true form. The dark red pupils of her eyes seemed to glow in the shadows, but her gaze was easy enough to meet.