A Veiled & Hallowed Eve

by Hailey Turner

  “Constructs just tried to enter the club. Ashanti is keeping them at bay, but they’re still outside and don’t seem in any hurry to leave.”

  “Constructs?”

  “Jaguars.”

  The scent-memory of marigolds was suddenly in Patrick’s nose, and he had to swallow against the rise of bile in the back of his throat. “Tezcatlipoca?”

  “Just fucking get here.”

  Lucien ended the call. Patrick stood and shoved the phone into his back pocket on his way to the bedroom to retrieve his dagger and pistol, Jono half a step behind.

  “Do you want Sage and Wade to meet us there?” Jono asked, shoving his feet into his shoes.

  “Wade doesn’t have to come if he doesn’t want to. I’d rather he didn’t, to be honest,” Patrick said as he yanked on his leather jacket.

  “I’ll let them know.”

  Patrick didn’t want Wade to have to face off against the god who had held him captive and forced him to fight to the death in order to survive. Patrick knew a thing or two about facing off against nightmares, and if he could spare Wade that, he would. Besides, it wasn’t like Wade would have room to shift mass. Most of Manhattan’s streets were pretty narrow for a dragon.

  He and Jono left the safety of their apartment and took the stairs down to the ground floor two steps at a time. Patrick slammed open the building’s front door, making one of the gargoyles on the stoop railing hiss in that rough voice they all had. A handful had come off the front of the building to guard the entrance. The reason for their territorial attitude were a couple of reporters lurking on the sidewalk, the last stubborn holdouts of the media wanting Patrick’s opinion on Setsuna’s death.

  He fucking hated them.

  “Do you have a statement you’d like to give the American people on who you think is behind the death of SOA Director Setsuna Abuku?” one woman asked, spitting the words out so fast they ran together.

  Her phone was thrust in their direction as they reached the sidewalk. Patrick could see the recording app running on the screen of her phone. He bit his tongue to hold back how badly he wanted to tell the media to fuck off.

  “No comment,” Patrick gritted out as they headed for the Mustang parked at the corner of the block.

  “It’s being reported you were present when she died. How does her death affect your standing with the SOA after everything that happened over the summer?”

  “Fuck off,” Jono snarled, clearly as annoyed as Patrick was.

  The woman was persistent, as were the other two vying for a comment. Patrick bit his tongue, knowing that to do anything but look straight ahead and ignore them would only feed their desire for answers.

  Setsuna had always taught him no comment was the greatest defense against the media. He was all set to respond that way when recognition cut through his magic so hard he nearly doubled over. The presence of hell exploded in the street, searing through him.

  Jono’s hand caught him by the shoulder even as Patrick ripped his shields outward to cover where they stood. The reporters startled hard at the manifestation of his magic, eyes going wide when he conjured up half a dozen mageglobes right as a hellfire bomb crashed against his layered shields.

  Defensive magic wasn’t his affinity, but he’d been in fights like this often enough to know how to dig in and hold on. He sank his awareness into the soulbond, reaching through Jono’s soul for the ley line snaking below the earth because he’d long since lost the ability to channel it through his own soul. He tapped the wild magic and poured external power into his mageglobes, setting them with strike spells.

  The reporters screamed, running past where Jono and Patrick stood, looking for a way out, only to crash into his shields. They had nowhere to go, and their panic would be a problem.

  Then the gas tanks on two nearby cars exploded, and their screams got louder.

  The fierce heat melded with the hellfire, creating a fireball that blew toward the sky. Patrick extended his shields with a snarl, the pale blue glint of his magic reflecting the flames as he struggled to encase the explosion before spot fires took hold on the surrounding buildings.

  Hellfire was like magical napalm, and the horrendous stuff burned through anything, even magic given enough time. If some of the hellfire made it onto the buildings, they’d have an even worse problem.

  Not like they weren’t already in the midst of one.

  Hellfire meant Hades, and Patrick wouldn’t mind shoving his dagger into that god’s back if the bastard showed up.

  Concentrating on the explosion meant he didn’t see the mageglobe with the strike spell cutting through the smoke until it exploded against his shields, tearing into them. The world went strangely quiet beyond the ringing in his ears. Luckily, his eardrums didn’t rupture, even if the top layer of his shields did. Patrick threw up another layer to shore up his defenses, squinting through the smoke at the shadows coming their way, ignoring the ache blooming in the back of his head.

  Sickly red-orange magic that Patrick thought was fire at first flickered in the air. Then the mageglobe became more prominent as Zachary Myers stepped through the veil, guided by an emaciated woman that made Patrick freeze where he stood.

  Santa Muerte hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d stepped foot in New York City. She was like a walking skeleton, skin stretched tight over bone, the black dress she wore with its heavily embroidered skirt overwhelming her desiccated form. Her hair was braided into a crown, marigolds tucked amongst the sections like a flowery halo, the color starkly bright.

  Her face was painted like a sugar skull, the black-and-red detailing around her eyes and mouth coming across like bruises in the light from the still-roiling explosion of hellfire and gasoline behind Patrick’s shaky shields. Her pitch-black eyes reminded him of Ashanti’s and Lucien’s, but that’s where any similarities ended.

  Behind them came a dozen other men and women, some dressed like hunters, others obvious Dominion Sect magic users, spells sparking at their fingertips. The veil they’d slipped through with Santa Muerte’s help seemed ragged at the edges, threadbare and worn. The Dagda’s warning about how the veil was eroding from the other side day by day rang like a warning siren through Patrick’s mind.

  Jono shifted with a crunch of bones and the wet sound of tearing flesh. The shift was quicker than any other werecreature could ever do, urged on by Fenrir. Patrick spared a glance at the massive werewolf now standing beside him, eyes burning white when they’d normally be bright blue.

  “We have an audience,” Patrick hissed.

  “I’ve summoned ones who can fix that,” Fenrir said, the words scraped out of a throat not meant to speak.

  He hoped that meant backup. They could really use some.

  Patrick yanked his dagger free and realigned his mageglobes. The matte-black blade burned with white heavenly fire, silvery prayers floating across the metal. “Zachary.”

  Ethan’s favored acolyte spread his tattooed hands, summoning up more mageglobes. The spells didn’t contain any more hellfire bombs, but the magic users with Zachary might have some in reserve.

  “I heard you went home. You’ll never be wanted by that blood,” Zachary sneered.

  “I’m not wanted by Ethan.”

  “You’ve always been wanted in some form or another.”

  “Dead isn’t a good look on me.”

  Zachary smiled, teeth flashing red in the light of his magic. “How was that visit with your grandmother? I’m sure she was far more polite to you than she was to me.”

  Despite the heat coming off the hellfire, Patrick felt as if he’d been doused in ice water. “What?”

  “Thresholds are meaningless when it comes to blood. I hear she welcomed you with open arms.”

  It hurt to breathe, cold sweat breaking out down his spine at the implications of Zachary’s words. Somehow, Patrick didn’t think Zachary was talking about the visit he and Jono had done.

  There was no time to process the threat, not when they
were so clearly outnumbered with civilians to protect. Patrick gestured sharply with his left hand, and his mageglobes streaked forward through his shields, twisting through the air toward the enemy.

  Zachary countered the ones aiming for him easily enough. Patrick’s strike spells broke on the other mage’s shield, the pale blue shine of his magic tearing itself apart. The other mageglobes were thrown back at him by Santa Muerte’s power, never finding their target.

  Patrick rocked back on his heels as his mageglobes slammed into his shields. He absorbed the magic, bones aching as he sent the excess down into the earth through the soulbond to ground it. A ripple ran through the shield, and Patrick swore, tightening his grip around his dagger.

  Fenrir snarled, the noise drowning out the screams of the reporters behind them. Then he threw back his head and howled, the sound echoing in the night air with enough magic in the call to make Patrick’s teeth ache.

  The soulbond pulled tight between him and Jono. Patrick could sense the power in Fenrir’s cry for support from surrounding packs. What good they’d do against a goddess, Patrick didn’t know, but he’d take what help they could get right now.

  “Your children will not be enough, cousin,” Santa Muerte said.

  The goddess extended her arms, and a black scythe materialized in her hands. She curled her bony fingers around the long snaith, not looking as if she had the strength to wield such a large weapon, but wield it she did.

  Santa Muerte lunged forward, bringing the scythe down in a slashing motion that could cleave a man in two. The hunters with guns opened fire around her, aiming for Patrick’s shields. His shields wouldn’t last long against spelled bullets and an immortal’s weapon.

  Fenrir lunged forward, pushing through Patrick’s shields with enough force that his head throbbed. Patrick shifted the radius of his shields, shrinking it so Fenrir didn’t break them.

  “A little warning would be nice!” Patrick snapped as he conjured up a couple more mageglobes.

  Fenrir ignored him, intent on getting his teeth into Santa Muerte. Space was limited on the sidewalk, the burning hellfire nearby heating the air to the point Patrick’s cooling charms on his leather jacket were activated automatically.

  The bullets stopped flying, but the spells replacing them hit like a freight train. Patrick stepped back from the physical blows against his shields, his focus wavering. He patched over the cracks and let his own mageglobes fly. His attack was hampered by Fenrir in Jono’s body fighting Santa Muerte directly in front of him.

  Needing space to maneuver better, Patrick spun around and peeled his shields open on the back end. The reporters were frozen in place from fear, but they got moving when Patrick grabbed two by the arm and yanked them forward. He needed them out of the line of fire if he was going to survive this fight.

  “Move,” he snapped, slamming the edge of his shield against the nearest building. “Up the stairs!”

  He didn’t have a key to the apartment building, but he had a mageglobe, and it shattered the glass pane on the door easily enough. Thresholds existed around individual apartments, not the building’s very public entrance, which was why his magic wasn’t stopped. One of the reporters shoved her arm through the open space, frantically reaching for the lock to get the door open. The small group hurried inside the questionable safety of the building, but anything was better than the street right now.

  Patrick took his eyes off them once they were inside, but that brief moment of distraction was all it took for one of Zachary’s mageglobes to slam through his shield with enough force his vision went black at the edges.

  He dived out of the way of the attack on instinct, head spinning, and ended up between the bumpers of two parked cars. Patrick coughed air out of his lungs, feeling as if he’d been punched in the gut hard enough to bruise. The mageglobe exploded some distance away, shattering windows.

  Patrick struggled to his feet, reeling from the realization that Zachary’s magic had slipped past his defenses because it wasn’t just the fucker’s magic. Zachary was adept at blood magic, and what had been threaded through his spell was drops of Ethan’s blood.

  “Fuck,” Patrick spat out, throwing himself into the street, heart practically in his throat. “Jono!”

  He needed Jono with him, to know the other man was safe. He couldn’t lose Jono the way he’d already lost Setsuna and possibly Eloise.

  Patrick’s magic was caught between keeping up his multitude of shields and needing to cast spells to keep Zachary and the others at bay. His ability to defend was shit if Zachary could bypass his magic using Ethan’s blood.

  Because blood would always call to blood, even if Ethan wasn’t standing right in front of him.

  Hunters veered around the burning mass of hellfire still contained in Patrick’s increasingly shaky shields, weapons in hand and demons staring out of their eyes. He turned to face them, drawing more power from the ley line and channeling it into three mageglobes. The shockwave spells took shape, the command trigger resting on the tip of his tongue. He released the mageglobes at the same time the hunters opened fire.

  The glittering wave of magic ripped through the air. The concussive force it carried rocked nearby cars on their wheels, blew out windows, and sent the bullets flying in all directions. The hunters were thrown back, landing hard on the asphalt. Patrick doubted any of them were truly incapacitated, but it bought him a few seconds’ reprieve.

  Not that it was worth much.

  Not having permanent shield anchors burned into his bones meant he had to consciously funnel some of his magic and concentration at all times to his shields. Patrick was stretched thin even with tapping a ley line, and Zachary had a way through his defenses that Patrick couldn’t wholly defend against.

  The attack from the sidewalk shattered his personal shields, and Patrick went down on one knee to make a smaller target. Blinding pain from backlash cut through his skull, but he forced it aside because to give in was a good way to die.

  Zachary strode toward him, hands shaping a mageglobe between them, tattooed palms dripping blood. “Your father wants you back.”

  “Fuck you and fuck Ethan,” Patrick snarled, trying desperately to raise his personal shields again. His magic was brittle and barely holding shape. It was all he could do to keep the shields up around the hellfire still burning in the street.

  Zachary hurtled the mageglobe at Patrick, malice in his eyes. Patrick raised his dagger as a last defense against magic designed to break through his own. Jono let out a howl, or maybe Fenrir did, the sound echoed by other werecreatures in the distance and racing closer. None of them would reach Patrick in time, but it didn’t matter.

  PIA Special Agent Nadine Mulroney always had his six when he was trapped in a corner.

  A violet-tinged shield slammed down between Patrick and Zachary’s attack, the mageglobe exploding harmlessly against a defense that would take more power than Zachary had at his disposal to break through. Patrick blinked at the shield before wrenching his head around, eyes going wide.

  Nadine, flanked by Shiva and Áłtsé Hashké in his coyote form, raced down the street toward them, the shimmer of the veil sealing up weakly behind them.

  “Collins!” Nadine shouted, flinging a mageglobe forward in advance of her rush.

  “Mulroney!” he called back.

  Another violet-tinged shield wrapped around the hellfire burning in the street, and Patrick gratefully withdrew his own battered shield. Concentration no longer split, he rose to his feet to square off against Zachary. The other mage had come to a stop at Nadine’s arrival, mageglobes in hand but spells not yet cast. The frustrated snarl on his face told Patrick that Zachary hadn’t anticipated the surprise backup.

  Nadine skidded to a stop next to Patrick, wearing leggings and a loose T-shirt beneath a stylish trench coat. She had sneakers on her feet rather than heels. It wasn’t the sort of outfit one wore to a fight but to travel.

  “Glad to see you, but what the hell are you doing here
?” Patrick asked.

  “My director is recalling field agents. I was getting off a flight in DC earlier when I got picked up by those two,” Nadine said, jerking her thumb at Shiva and Áłtsé Hashké.

  The pair of immortals had bypassed Zachary altogether in favor of backing up Fenrir against Santa Muerte. It had been a stalemate before their arrival, and now it was three against one, odds which didn’t favor the goddess or the Dominion Sect supporters she’d dragged through the veil.

  Patrick knew when that realization hit Zachary. He saw the moment the other mage tried to retreat, but his avenues of escape were supremely limited. Patrick raised his dagger and stepped forward.

  “Let me through. I’m going to kill that fucker,” he said.

  Nadine grabbed him by the elbow, fingers digging in. “We need to get you out of here.”

  “Fuck that. He—”

  Patrick broke off as inky black shadows erupted from the street to curl around Zachary. Santa Muerte’s shroud was like a living thing that pulled the mage into her skeletal arms and through the veil.

  Patrick slammed the hilt of his dagger against Nadine’s shield in frustration. “Gods fucking damn it!”

  The hunters and other Dominion Sect magic users had been left behind, much to the demons’ fury. They no longer only faced Patrick, Nadine, and a couple of immortals. Rounding the corners at both ends of the street came numerous werecreatures, followed by a couple of NYPD squad cars and the first FDNY fire engine to make it to the scene.

  Amidst the new arrivals, movement from above caught Patrick’s eyes. Muninn and Huginn dived down to perch on a stoop railing. Their targets were the reporters from before who’d snuck out of the apartment building to record the fight. Odin’s ravens wasted no time at pecking at the reporters’ skulls, their beaks passing through flesh and bone to steal their thoughts and memories, their targets none the wiser.

  The immortals had done the same thing in Chicago before Yggdrasil burst through the veil, leaving the guests at the fundraiser dinner remembering nothing of that night. The memory loss left holes in people’s lives, moments lost forever they would never get back. Patrick was reminded of what Maat had mentioned back in August when they’d strolled the National Mall. His stomach twisted as he realized the Egyptian goddess had been right after all.