All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2)

by Hailey Turner

  Patrick side-eyed him as they approached the stoop. “You’re showing teeth.”

  Jono didn’t bother to acknowledge that statement, just let his teeth shift against bone, the sharp fangs pricking at the inside of his cheeks. He didn’t care for how Estelle and Youssef led their god pack. Neither did he appreciate their lack of focus on the packs whose privacy they were supposed to oversee and protect.

  But what he’d told Emma was true—he couldn’t fight the god pack alone. Emma could say she wanted to follow him all she liked, but Jono knew it wasn’t the right time for a challenge.

  Fenrir would let him know when it was time to go to war.

  Jono and Patrick climbed the steps together, reaching the porch right as the front door opened. Jono eyed the man standing in their way, refusing to show his throat. Nicholas Kavanaugh, the god pack’s dire, was several centimeters shorter than Jono and carried maybe a stone less of muscle than him. What Nicholas lacked in height and weight, he more than made up for in the underhanded ways he enforced pack law on behalf of Estelle and Youssef.

  Nicholas was one bloke Jono wouldn’t mind seeing out of a job and buried in some out of the way unmarked grave.

  “The alphas requested to speak with you alone, Jonothon,” Nicholas said, glaring at Patrick.

  “Yeah, I heard.” Patrick crossed his arms over his chest. “About a case they definitely have no jurisdiction over. I’m just here to remind them who has a badge and who doesn’t. So you can either let us in or tell them to get their asses down here.”

  “You aren’t welcome.”

  Patrick didn’t move in the face of a threshold denying him entrance, staying on the porch situated in the outside world. “Then call your masters so we can get this over with.”

  “They asked for Jonothon.” Nicholas shoved the door all the way open and stepped aside just enough to make room for one other person to walk by. “So he can get inside.”

  “Nah, mate,” Jono drawled. “You heard Patrick. It’s his case.”

  “And the deceased was a werecreature you had no right to claim,” Estelle said as she stepped into view with Youssef by her side.

  Unlike Jono, Estelle was a born god pack werewolf who refused to hide. Her bright amber wolf eyes were set in a heart-shaped face, wavy brown hair twisted up off her neck and shoulders. At thirty-five, she’d been leading the New York City god pack for six years—piss poorly, if Jono was ever asked.

  Youssef was her husband of five years, and while he wasn’t a born god pack werewolf, he shared his wife’s ruthless way of laying down pack law. At forty years old, Youssef had become accustomed to a sense of deference from the packs under his control. Jono didn’t bother showing his throat in greeting to either of them. He never had, not even when Marek had first brought him to New York City.

  Jono was allowed to stay in New York City by dint of godly interference under the guise of a promise so long as he didn’t form a pack with anyone under their protection. He’d broken that promise in a way, but no one needed to know that just yet.

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “It’s not your case. Quit acting like it is.”

  “You had no right to ask Jonothon to identify the dead,” Youssef said.

  “You weren’t doing your job,” Patrick shot back derisively. “I don’t have that luxury.”

  “How dare you,” Estelle growled.

  She took a step forward, her hand a blur of motion as she crossed the threshold to reach for Patrick. Jono lashed out without thinking, grabbing Estelle by the wrist and shoving her backward. She didn’t seem prepared, which was surprising, and stumbled back into Nicholas’ waiting arms with a snarl. Youssef looked just as pissed, his bright amber eyes locked on Patrick.

  “Don’t touch him,” Jono said in a low, vicious voice that was more growl than English syllables.

  “That indiscretion could be taken as a challenge,” Youssef said, his voice colder than the nights got in August these days.

  “That wasn’t a fucking challenge, and you know it. He just saved your ass from an assault charge,” Patrick snapped.

  “The identification of werecreatures has always fallen to the god pack. You didn’t follow protocol, Patrick,” Estelle said, shaking off Nicholas’ support in order to stand up straight again.

  “That’s Special Agent Collins to all of you. We aren’t on a first-name basis, so fucking remember that.”

  “You couldn’t be bothered to identify the dead, so the SOA came to me,” Jono said, staring at Youssef without blinking. “Patrick asked me to identify the bloke, so I did.”

  “That’s not your right,” Youssef spat out.

  “It should be yours, but you lot didn’t seem arsed to do your job at the time.”

  “You think just because you have an SOA mage backing you that we’ll ignore your act of rebellion?” Estelle demanded as she crossed the threshold once more, this time going toe-to-toe with Jono instead of Patrick. He could smell her anger, thicker than the heat bearing down on them. “You agreed to a set of rules in order to stay here, and those rules are binding. You break them, you can leave New York City for good.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Jono isn’t going anywhere. You even try to kick him out of this city and I’ll open up a federal investigation into your pack’s management of the people under your care. All those tithes you collect? Won’t be worth jack shit in the face of the United States government and its deep pockets.”

  Estelle ignored Patrick and refused to look away from Jono’s eyes. “You made a promise, Jonothon. You better abide by it.”

  Jono’s mouth curled, fangs cutting into his lips. “I promised not to make a pack with anyone under your protection within your territory. I haven’t done that, Estelle. You, on the other hand, took an oath to protect the packs who tithe to you and those who cross through your territory searching for safe passage. Ignoring a dead independent werecreature with vampire markings on his body isn’t doing your fucking job, is it?”

  It was the truth, in the literal sense of the word, because Patrick wasn’t under the god pack’s protection. While Jono knew they wouldn’t be able to smell anything but the truth on him, what he got off Nicholas, of all people, was a single, barely skipped heartbeat that had Jono breaking eye contact with Estelle to zero in on their dire.

  Dires were essential to a god pack. They enforced their alphas’ orders, the traditional role held by their most loyal pack member. Dires would steal, fight, and die for the god pack alphas they served. In Jono’s experience, Nicholas was no different.

  Except he was a shit liar when it mattered, because that little tell echoed loudly in Jono’s ears.

  “Independents come and go. They tithe to us on an as needed basis,” Estelle said.

  “They still show their throats to you, asking for rights to enter your territory. They still ask for protection when it matters,” Jono replied, never taking his eyes off Nicholas. “I never did.”

  “Is that a threat?” Youssef asked in a low, harsh voice.

  Jono shrugged, rocking back on his heels in a bored way that would never come across as backing down. He forced his teeth back to human shape, swallowing the tang of blood that had bloomed across his tongue. “It’s a fact, Youssef. Best remember that.”

  A tiny, pale blue mageglobe formed between Jono and Estelle, forcing her to take a step back. Patrick’s magic didn’t cross the threshold. That didn’t stop everyone but Jono from eyeing it warily.

  “Leave Jono alone about this, and stay out of my fucking cases,” Patrick ordered them.

  “Having a federal mage on your side won’t save your position here,” Estelle warned, her mouth curling up in an expression Jono had seen in the past, right before she tore out a werecreature’s throat.

  Jono smiled, feeling Fenrir waking up deep in his soul, the immortal’s growl thrumming through his mind where no one else could hear. “I’m not the one who needs saving, love.”

  It wasn’t a challenge, not in any official capacity,
but the underlying threat was there, and Jono refused to take it back. Let Estelle and Youssef and their god pack snarl about the promise they thought he was breaking; he’d throw their own mistakes back in their faces.

  Jono wasn’t the one turning his back on the werecreatures who needed help.

  Patrick drew down his magic, the mageglobe disappearing in a soft spray of sparks. Jono turned his back on the god pack alphas, a deliberate show of disrespect that made Youssef growl. Jono made it to the sidewalk before Patrick even bothered to leave the porch, casually taking the steps one at a time on the way down.

  They walked back to the car, the silence between them one of necessity since who knew how many ears and eyes were attuned to their position.

  It was when they turned the corner that Jono’s instincts reared up with a vengeance. Patrick went still behind him, reaching for his dagger rather than calling forth his magic. The electric scent of ozone after a lightning strike filled the air around them, thicker than the last time they’d been in this situation.

  “Gods fucking damn it,” Patrick snarled as he stalked toward the Mustang.

  Jono followed after Patrick and drew in a lungful of air that tasted like lightning on his tongue, reminding him of the beach in the Hamptons when Patrick had faced off against Hades. The electric scent of a god overrode the smell of the dog piss, garbage, and exhaust that permeated every Manhattan street Jono had ever walked down.

  Patrick yanked open the car door, glaring at the black Santa Muerte figurine lying on the passenger side seat. “Not a fucking word, Jono.”

  All the questions swirling through his mind remained on the tip of his tongue for later. Jono watched Patrick encase the figurine in his magic to contain it.

  Something moved out of the corner of his eye and Jono jerked his head around. The only things in the street were cars, but he thought—just for a moment—he saw the flash of a four-legged animal in the rearview mirror of a passing car. Jono took in the street, seeing no werecreatures in their shifted form prowling the area. Nothing seemed out of place, except something had gotten through Patrick’s wards again without either of them noticing.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Patrick said, dropping down into the passenger seat. He still held the Santa Muerte figurine in one hand, magic flickering at his fingertips to keep whatever was buried in it contained.

  Jono wanted to chuck it out of the car into the gutter where it belonged.

  “Where to?” Jono asked as he walked around to get in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching them.

  “PCB. I need to stop by the evidence lockup.”

  Jono started the engine and pulled into the street. Only when they were far enough out of the god pack’s territory, where too-interested ears couldn’t hear him, did he speak. “Overall, that could’ve gone better.”

  Patrick snorted. “Which part? The nice little chat we had or the gifts some asshole keeps leaving us?”

  “Both.”

  “Next time, you should just rip out their throats.”

  Jono rolled his eyes. “I’m not challenging them.”

  “Yet,” Patrick said succinctly.

  Jono thought about arguing, but he hadn’t approved of the way Estelle and Youssef governed the werecreature community for years. Emma’s quiet, pointed words about her preference of a leader had ratcheted up in the past couple of weeks, and this new case Patrick was handling was making Jono question his reasons to abide by a promise that only hobbled him.

  Jono braked for the amber light and leaned across the console to kiss Patrick. “Let’s keep that between us, yeah?”

  “You know me,” Patrick muttered, chasing after Jono’s mouth when he tried to pull away. “I’m all about secrets.”

  “Wish you weren’t,” Jono said, stealing one more kiss before the light turned green to shut him up.

  He didn’t want to hear what Patrick would say to that; didn’t want to smell the lies Patrick still couldn’t give up.

  Some things, Jono knew, you just had to live with.

  6

  “I’m really not happy about this,” Emma said over the mobile.

  Jono dodged around a group of women wearing club dresses for a Saturday night out on the town, ignoring the interested glances thrown his way. Aside from them not being his type, he doubted they’d be at all interested if he took off his sunglasses and revealed his eyes.

  “Not your place to decide, Em. Just keep everyone home tonight or working full shifts at the bar in case anything goes wrong. Alibis are good, yeah? I don’t want the god pack to accuse you of breaking any rules.”

  Neither of them were supposed to be anywhere close to vampire territory in this manner. Passing through was fine—that was the only way to live in a major metropolitan city—but Jono didn’t want Emma to suffer the consequences of breaking a treaty when it was all on Jono.

  “Everyone is where they should be except for Sage. Her mediation was today and it’s running late, but she’s with a senior partner of her firm. Estelle and Youssef won’t argue with the fae over her whereabouts.”

  Jono snorted, ignoring the sounds of taxis honking to his left on Broadway. “Because they’d lose.”

  “We’re safe,” Emma told him. “You’re the one in the crossfire.”

  Jono kept his eyes on Patrick, watching as the mage sidestepped a couple of posh-looking blokes as they continued down the street. “I’ll be fine. We both will.”

  “Keep an eye on Patrick. Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

  “Ask for a miracle, why don’t you.”

  Emma laughed in his ear, but there was little humor in her voice. “Call me when it’s over.”

  “Can do. Ta, love.”

  Jono ended the call and pocketed his mobile, lengthening his stride to catch up with Patrick. Despite the muggy heat that lingered over the city an hour past sunset, Patrick had a baseball cap on to cover his distinctive dark ginger hair, and he wore his leather jacket with the defensive charms set into the material.

  “Everyone good?” Patrick asked.

  Jono nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Carmen texted. ETA five minutes.”

  “Brilliant.”

  Honestly, Jono could’ve thought up a dozen better ways to spend a Saturday night in SoHo than invading a master vampire’s territory. But he hadn’t been asked, so here they were.

  The Crimson Diamond was one of those swanky luxury clubs Jono used to always feel out of place in as a young lad back in London. Located in an old industrial, cast-iron building, with an interior converted into something more modern, the Crimson Diamond could hold its own against all that the rest of Manhattan’s clubs had to offer. The windows had been sealed shut and darkened over time. Jono couldn’t see any signage save for red neon bent in the shape of a diamond above a single door.

  A lone doorman stood outside in a dark suit, but there was no velvet rope to showcase the popularity of the club. No one loitered outside because the Crimson Diamond was an invite-only sort of place, where membership and the perks that came with it was tiered, but even the lowest level cost several hundred thousand dollars. No one could just walk in off the street and expect to be granted entrance—but that was exactly what they were going to do.

  Patrick came to a stop a meter away from the entrance and ignored the doorman in favor of his mobile. Jono eyed the bruiser standing watch, discreetly taking in his scent with a quiet sniff. Human, but there was an underlying chemical note to the man’s scent that made Jono almost gag. When the man turned his head away after a long minute of staring, Jono’s keen eyesight caught a glimpse of the jagged scars half-hidden by the suit’s collar.

  Bite marks.

  Jono ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, tilting his head toward the building. He couldn’t hear a bloody thing coming through those walls, just a silence that spoke of secrets wanting to be kept. No one spent loads of money on a high-level silence ward without reason.

  “Thir
ty seconds,” Patrick finally said, putting away his mobile.

  Jono counted down the time in his head, and right when he hit zero, a black Escalade turned left at the corner of Grand Street. It braked to a stop in front of the club, two of the four doors opening before the wheels even stopped moving. Jono arched an eyebrow behind his sunglasses at the vampires and their chosen outfits.

  He’d figured Lucien would’ve gone for the toff look, all designer suit and expensive accessories. Instead, the master vampire had opted for his usual attire of black jeans, studded motorcycle boots this time around, and a gray T-shirt beneath a battered leather jacket. The cigarette clamped between his lips was half-burned, the smell of nicotine making Jono’s lip curl.

  Einar got out of the front passenger side, the tall, blond vampire dressed as casually as his master. Both vampires were that washed-out pale of the undead one couldn’t help but notice. Einar moved off to the side as Lucien helped Carmen out of the car. Feet clad in a pair of red stilettos slid into view; Jono winced at their absurd height.

  The vibrant, red leather corset dress she wore barely covered her bum, the strapless sweetheart neckline molded to her breasts. A choker of diamonds and rubies fit snug around her throat, matching the earrings she wore. The small fortune was easy to see since her thick, curly black hair was tied back in a fishtail braid that cascaded down her back. Carmen looked human, and Jono wondered how long she would carry her glamour before shedding it.

  Patrick cocked his head to the side, gaze raking up and down her body. “That’s an interesting place to hide a knife.”

  Carmen smirked at him as she curved her hand around Lucien’s elbow. “Surprisingly comfortable.”

  “If you say so.”

  Lucien stared at Patrick with those eerie black eyes that Jono fantasized about clawing out of his skull. “Keep your promise and don’t fuck this up.”

  Patrick gave him a one fingered salute. “Just get us inside so you can kill him.”