All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2)

by Hailey Turner

“Should be safe. I have you shielded.”

  Jono nodded and hauled the passenger-side door open, lips curling into a snarl. “Someone left you a gift.”

  Jono didn’t recognize the black plastic doll sitting in the cup holder in the center console, but Patrick did judging by the amount of swearing that left his mouth. Jono stepped aside so Patrick could lean in and grab the figurine, magic sparking around his hand in a protective layer. Pale blue light flickered and folded around the doll, encasing it in a protective mageglobe.

  “What is it?” Jono asked.

  Patrick glared at the skeleton-shaped reaper in his hand. “A Santa Muerte idol. It matches the one we found in the subway tonight.”

  “You didn’t mention that to the others.”

  “It’s not something they needed to know.”

  Jono stared at Patrick. “That’s not how pack works, mate.”

  Patrick sat down in the passenger seat and wouldn’t look at him. “I’m telling you.”

  Jono should feel grateful about that, considering how he knew Patrick played things close to the chest—only he didn’t. “What immortal are we dealing with this time?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Jono sighed deeply before shutting the car door and going around to the driver’s side. He got behind the wheel and started the engine, sitting there for a moment before saying, “Where to?”

  He desperately wanted Patrick to say home. The answer he got was unsurprising.

  “The PCB.”

  Jono pulled into the street and headed for the corner. As he braked to a halt, movement flashed across the rearview mirror. His eyes cut to the reflection in the mirror, but nothing appeared.

  “What is it?” Patrick asked.

  “Thought I saw something.”

  Patrick twisted around in his seat to peer out the rear window. “What did it look like?”

  “Not sure, but it was running on four legs.”

  A werecreature would be the obvious answer because the god pack wasn’t above spying on the people they were supposed to protect. Emma’s pack was no exception, and only the bought magic sunk into the threshold around their home or Patrick prevented werecreatures from listening in some days.

  Somehow, Jono had a feeling what he thought he’d seen wasn’t a werecreature.

  3

  Patrick pushed through the front doors to the Preternatural Crimes Bureau with the Santa Muerte idol in hand and Jono at his back. He unearthed his badge from his back pocket and presented it to the desk sergeant on duty. The woman buzzed them through the security doors without comment.

  Rather than head up to the fifth floor where Bureau Chief Giovanni Casale’s office was, they took the elevator down into the basement where the crime lab and morgue were located. The basement also housed the evidence lockup, which was always manned by a magic user.

  The officer working third shift greeted them with a friendly enough smile. The badge pinned to her shirt showed her last name and was etched with a small pentacle beneath the letters, denoting her rank as a witch.

  Submitting the Santa Muerte idol into evidence and tagging it with the correct case number took a few minutes and only one form. Patrick left the idol in the evidence lockup, contained inside a warded wooden box with Latin prayers carved on all sides.

  “I need to see if Casale is in,” Patrick said, knuckling one eye as they waited for the elevator.

  Jono nodded. “Want me to wait at the car?”

  Patrick’s first instinct was to say yes, but Jono had been with him for the second idol’s appearance and he had insight to the werecreature community Patrick didn’t have. Aside from that, Patrick just plain missed him after a week apart.

  “No. Stay with me.”

  Jono’s hand brushed the back of his as they stepped into the elevator, a silent signal of support that Patrick was still getting used to.

  The bull pen was busy despite the late hour when they walked by it. Some of the offices on the floor were dark, but Casale’s had light streaming from beneath the closed door. His assistant, Paula, had left hours ago, so Patrick knocked on the door. The office was warded for silence, but the wards would let Casale know someone was outside waiting.

  The door opened seconds later and Patrick came face-to-face with the PCB’s bureau chief. He hadn’t seen Giovanni Casale in weeks. Considering the backlog of cases cropping up since summer solstice, it wasn’t surprising.

  “I’m back,” Patrick said in lieu of hello.

  Casale opened the office door wider, gesturing for them to enter. “I wish you weren’t.”

  “One of these days you’ll miss me.”

  “When I’m dead, maybe.”

  Patrick couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped his mouth. He respected Casale despite knowing the NYPD didn’t much care for when a federal agency came in to take over a case. But Casale would’ve been the one to reach out to the SOA asking for assistance in the first place. Henry had offered up Patrick out of the field office’s Rapid Response Division and Casale hadn’t said no.

  “Did you receive the preliminary officer report on the subway homicide?” Patrick asked as Jono shut the door behind him.

  “I was advised about the case when it hit dispatch. It’s why I sent the request to the SOA in the first place and stayed late,” Casale replied. “Heard you’d gone to talk to the god pack tonight. Thought that would’ve been Estelle and Youssef, not Jonothon.”

  “They were busy,” Jono said with a careless shrug. He didn’t move to take a seat, and Patrick stayed by his side.

  Casale gave Jono a pointed look as he went behind his desk to start shutting down his computer. “You don’t speak for the packs.”

  “I trust Jono more than I trust Estelle and Youssef. Besides, he’s an independent and so is our vic,” Patrick said.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  Casale frowned. “This case is going to get messy.”

  “Tell me about it. Is Catherine fast-tracking the autopsy?”

  “Yes. I’ve signed off on the overtime. Body like that in a warded subway tunnel? You can bet people will be questioning the protection. I had a call with the president of the MTA about an hour ago. They’re initiating a survey on the wards in that area tonight. They’re hoping to beat morning rush hour.”

  “Good. Let me know what they find out.”

  “So long as you’re more of a party player than last time. Try not to get knocked out and go off grid for twenty-four hours or more this time.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Patrick said, not promising anything.

  Casale nodded. “All I can ask for.”

  Their working relationship in June had ended on a high note, despite the mess that happened. Casale’s good name hadn’t been dragged too deep through the mud since the SOA took the brunt of the public’s anger. Patrick didn’t have his finger on the pulse of NYPD internal politics, but he figured since Casale was still around and leading the PCB it was a sign of tacit approval from the brass at One Police Plaza.

  Casale shifted his attention to Jono. “Unless you’re here under Marek’s order, this case doesn’t concern you no matter what Patrick thinks.”

  Jono’s mouth ticked downward a bit. “You know I’m an independent and a better source than the god pack alphas.”

  “But you aren’t the New York City god pack alpha, despite your background. I can’t discuss the case with you.”

  “I’d rather work with Jono than Estelle and Youssef,” Patrick said.

  “I won’t tell you how to run your cases, but I need to abide by the law for mine. City ordinance requires me to go through whoever is in charge of the god pack here, and that’s not Jonothon.”

  “Okay.”

  Patrick’s answer was less agreement and more I’ll do what I want. Casale seemed to pick up on that, judging by how he rolled his eyes.

  “Why are you here, Collins?”

  “You know how we found a Santa Muerte ido
l in the subway? Someone got through the wards on my car to leave me a second one as a present.”

  Casale’s eyes blinked wide before narrowing. “They did what?”

  “I don’t know who did it. There’s no trace signature on the damn thing, but whoever managed it has to be powerful.”

  The lie came easily to his lips, as they always did. Patrick wasn’t about to talk about immortals, no matter how entrenched Casale was in the preternatural world. The old gods weren’t believed in much outside what followers they could scrape together these days.

  “Do you think it’s Ethan Greene and the Dominion Sect again? Revenge, maybe, for what happened in June?”

  Patrick fought back a flinch. Casale’s words hit a little too close to home, something the older man could never know. Patrick’s familial ties to Ethan was a secret very few knew. As far as the public was concerned, Patrick was dead, murdered by his father when he was eight years old, along with his mother and twin sister, Hannah. In reality, he’d lived under a false identity for over twenty years, protected and used by the Greek goddess of the Underworld, and bound by a soul debt he couldn’t escape.

  “Who knows?” Patrick said, forcing himself to sound unworried. “I’m leaning toward vampires.”

  “Think your criminal informant might be able to shed some light on the issue?”

  Lucien was still around, but Patrick hadn’t seen him since summer solstice. He hadn’t disclosed his CI source to anyone after the fact, despite pressure to do so. “I don’t know. Not sure what they’re up to.”

  Casale looked like he didn’t believe Patrick, but was too much of a professional to call him out on his bullshit answer. Casale pulled his suit jacket off the coat rack in the corner and shrugged it on. “We’ll discuss the case later when we have more at hand than a dead body. Keep me in the loop, Collins.”

  That was something Patrick couldn’t outright promise to do, but he liked Casale. He knew from experience that working with local law enforcement was better than working against them. No one was helped in the end by different departments and agencies refusing to share leads.

  Patrick and Jono preceded Casale out of the office and to the elevator. The three of them didn’t speak on the way down to the ground floor and went their separate ways. Patrick was relieved to discover the Mustang was untouched this time around when they made it back to the warded parking garage.

  “Home?” Jono asked as he unlocked the car doors with a push of a button.

  “Yeah.”

  When Patrick was a boy, before his mother and twin sister were murdered by his father, he called Salem, Massachusetts, home. He had vague memories of that house and his mother’s family who would visit, bringing treats and charms to entertain Hannah and him.

  After—after the blood and the scars and a life granted in exchange for a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep—Patrick grew up in an Academy for magic users, a ward of the state with a brand-new identity. Ten years of tutelage earned him a contract with the Mage Corps and a roster spot in the Citadel, the premier military school for magic users.

  None of those places had a bed he enjoyed sleeping in. When he finally deployed, he slept where he could: cots, bunks, foxholes, and always with a weapon close at hand.

  Patrick never had a home, not since Salem, but the apartment he shared with Jono was slowly becoming one. Learning to live with someone else in his personal space so intimately was a process, one where compromise was key.

  Despite the low-grade headache building at the back of his skull from stress and nicotine cravings, Patrick wasn’t going to light up a cigarette. Quitting smoking because Jono asked was something Patrick was committed to. At times like this, he desperately wished he could have just one more smoke break. Jono made a pretty good distraction though.

  That fact was proven when they finally made it home, the threshold around the apartment a comforting barrier between them and the rest of the world. Patrick kicked the door shut behind them and locked it. Jono dropped Patrick’s luggage by the door before taking his hand and pulling him toward the bedroom.

  Patrick followed willingly, feeling the long day—hell, the entire week—in his muscles. As much as he wouldn’t mind a night full of welcome-home sex, the siren song of sleep called to him.

  “Don’t think I’m up for much right now,” Patrick said.

  He started undoing the straps that kept his gods-given dagger strapped to his right thigh while Jono worked at unholstering his sidearm.

  “Happy to have you home, is all,” Jono murmured, leaning down to press a warm, openmouthed kiss to the pulse of Patrick’s throat. “You need to shower?”

  Patrick didn’t particularly want to, but considering the day he’d had, it was probably the better option. “Yeah. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

  Washing off the grittiness of travel went a long ways to making him feel better. The warm water helped loosen his muscles and eased some of the lingering bruising he still carried. The scars on his chest from nearly being sacrificed as a child by Ethan were pale against his skin, the dog tags he still wore falling on top of them. He couldn’t feel the metal in certain spots, the damage too deep.

  Persephone had healed him after Patrick unwittingly agreed to her terms years ago. She’d let the wound scar, a reminder of his mistake in saying yes. Patrick had kept them covered up as much as possible until Jono came into his life.

  Patrick finished getting clean and got out of the shower, drying off before pulling on a pair of boxers. Summer was in full swing, but the apartment was cool due to the air-conditioning Jono had running most of the day in anticipation of Patrick coming home.

  Jono was in their bed when Patrick exited the master bathroom. Unlike Patrick, Jono slept in the nude, and was already under the duvet, the covers pushed down to his waist. He was on his phone but put it aside once Patrick turned off the lights and crawled into bed. Jono dragged him close without a word, the heat he gave off a counter to the coolness in the bedroom.

  In the dark, Jono’s voice was a deep rumble between them. “Think it could be the same group of immortals from before?”

  Patrick grimaced and slung an arm over Jono’s torso. “Doubtful, but I won’t rule it out. Hermes has a tendency to pop up like a fucking cockroach.”

  “Do vampires have a god?”

  Patrick stiffened, his reaction impossible to hide, not when he was pressed so close to Jono. He swallowed thickly, the sound loud between them. “Yes, but it’s not her.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Patrick closed his eyes, a flash image of fire burning across the back of his eyelids—Ashanti disintegrating right in front of him. The mother of all vampires had died in the Thirty-Day War three years ago, sacrificing herself to deliver Patrick’s dagger to him and help break the Dominion Sect’s spell. Growing up, Ashanti had been an unholy mentor to him from time to time. Her absence in the world was a reality Patrick hated living with.

  “Yes,” he repeated with more conviction.

  “Then I suppose the only place to go for answers is the god pack,” Jono said, sounding vaguely irritated at that fact. “I doubt they’ll be very forthcoming.”

  “If they obstruct the case in any way, I’ll be within my rights to charge them over that.”

  “As much as I’d love to see them get a bit of comeuppance, it’d be a right mess within the werecreature community if you did. People might be unwilling to chat with you about whoever’s gone missing.”

  “They’d talk to you.”

  Jono’s hand stilled where his fingers were stroking soft circles over Patrick’s hip beneath the covers. “Not sure they would.”

  “Maybe the packs aligned with the god pack won’t, but I bet the independents would. You were one of them.”

  “Still am outside these walls.”

  Patrick moved his head to press a kiss against Jono’s warm skin. “I never understood why you independents wouldn’t just form your own packs with each other.”

  �
�Mixed viral strains. There’s a reason people stick with their own kind. You see it even in mundane society with discrimination and cultural mores. It takes a lot of effort to try to make something like that work. Most werecreatures can’t be arsed to try, not when forming a new pack in established areas means you get sod all in the territory department.”

  “You tried.”

  “You’re a hard bloke to say no to, Pat.” Jono pressed a kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. “Now go to sleep.”

  Patrick closed his eyes, relaxing in slow degrees against Jono. Sleeping on the road was no longer normal for him. He’d gotten used to sleeping with another body in the bed, the sound of someone breathing close by a white noise he’d missed in his hotel room.

  Waking up together after being apart had its own appeal, one he’d missed while upstate.

  Sunrise in summer came before 0700, and after a night of no dreams or nightmares, Patrick woke to warm lips pressing soft kisses down his spine. Cracking open one eye, Patrick flexed his fingers against the sheets. He’d rolled onto his stomach sometime during the night, arms shoved beneath the pillow. He had a vague sense memory of Jono pressed close throughout the night, but that was overtaken by the present teasing touches.

  “You turned off my alarm,” Patrick mumbled. His internal sense of time told him it should’ve gone off five minutes ago.

  Jono licked at the dip of his lower spine, the warm drag of Jono’s tongue making Patrick twitch. He’d gone to bed in boxers, but those were missing now. The fact that Jono was able to strip him without Patrick waking up just proved his subconscious had firmly put Jono in the non-threat box.

  “You get up too bloody early most days, but it works in my favor sometimes,” Jono said, his breath ghosting over the curve of Patrick’s bare ass. “Figured I could welcome you home now since I didn’t get the chance last night.”

  Patrick helpfully spread his legs, hissing at the way his already interested cock moved against the bedsheet. Warm fingers gripped his ass and spread him open. Patrick turned his face into the pillow at the first lick of Jono’s tongue over his hole, the scrape of Jono’s five-o’clock shadow against sensitive skin making him gasp.