All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2)

by Hailey Turner

  The smug look on Tremaine’s face devolved into one of fury Patrick could see from halfway across the club.

  “Aw, I think you hit a nerve. Quick, do it again.”

  They moved as far as the golden circle before coming to a stop, the tips of Patrick’s boots mere millimeters from the magic burning on the dance floor. They weren’t safe anywhere in the Crimson Diamond, but he wasn’t about to mess with a god’s power.

  “You are trespassing,” Tremaine hissed out.

  “It’s not your territory,” Einar shot back.

  Tezcatlipoca stroked a hand over the jaguar’s head. “You are mistaken if you believe your master owns anything here.”

  “Oh, Lucien owns a fuck ton of shit I’m sure your cartel would love to have,” Patrick replied. “But he doesn’t like sharing. Tremaine, though, pretty sure you can keep him.”

  “Speak my name with such disrespect again and you won’t leave this club alive,” Tremaine promised.

  “As threats go, I give it a solid two. Lucien still has you beat.”

  Tezcatlipoca studied Patrick with a hooded gaze. “Your insolence does you no favors.”

  Patrick spread his hands and shrugged. “I’m here at the behest of my government for crimes committed by the Omacatl Cartel. Tremaine is a party to those crimes by knowingly giving you a space to run your fight rings and sell your drugs.”

  “Mortal laws do not apply to me.”

  “But they apply to your subordinates,” Sage spoke up. “Of which Tremaine is one of them. And a warrant isn’t granted without proof.”

  “Your proof won’t be alive for much longer,” Tremaine promised.

  Patrick chose to have faith in Jono because not believing the other man would survive and keep Wade safe wasn’t an option. “You’d be surprised what people do when cornered.”

  Tezcatlipoca smiled, the expression inhuman. “I look forward to seeing how you react.”

  The immortal raised a hand, and Tremaine obeyed like the well-strung puppet he was. The master vampire turned to one of his subordinates and said, “Bring her.”

  Patrick tensed at that order. Beside him, Sage went rigid. Einar cocked his head to the side, listening hard to something Patrick couldn’t hear.

  Tezcatlipoca stood, the jaguar pacing beside him as he walked toward where Patrick stood. Every step of his obsidian foot against marble rang sharply in the air. Patrick didn’t hesitate to unsheathe his dagger, heavenly fire crawling over the matte black blade as he held it tightly.

  “I heard you were gifted the power of gods. It will not help you tonight,” Tezcatlipoca said.

  Patrick raised the dagger between them, the sharp tip pointed at Tezcatlipoca’s heart. “It helps enough.”

  “Such misplaced faith you carry.”

  Sage drew in a sharp breath, and Patrick knew he wasn’t going to like what came next. Sage, with her enhanced hearing, probably heard every single sound before they got close enough to reach Patrick’s ears. She stood her ground despite the expression on her face that spoke of wanting to take people apart from the skin on down. The bleak, furious look in her eyes caught Tezcatlipoca’s attention.

  “Daughter, you do yourself a disservice by aligning yourself with this one,” Tezcatlipoca said.

  “You are not of my people,” Sage spat out. “Don’t call me daughter.”

  Beneath her snarled words was the distant sound of screaming—thin and thready, full of agonizing pain.

  It didn’t sound human.

  Sage closed her eyes, swallowing hard. Patrick stepped closer to her, not letting his dagger drop. Screams encroached on the silence as proof of everything Estelle and Youssef had perpetuated against their own people came into the light, dragged between two vampires.

  Sage made a wounded noise and covered her mouth with her hand. Patrick forced himself to look—to see what had been done to the captive—because he needed to know how much blood to ask for in return.

  The werelion looked like they had been skinned alive, one bite at a time. Most of their fur was gone, with stakes of pure silver coated in aconite pierced through each paw so they couldn’t run. The vampires dropped the werelion on the floor next to Tremaine. The werelion lay there listlessly, swollen tongue lolling out of a mouth full of too many broken teeth. Patrick saw more bone in her tail than muscle. Ribs glistened through pus and blood and rotten flesh with every strained breath the werelion took.

  “Do you recognize them?” Patrick asked Sage.

  It took Sage a moment to regain her composure, her hands balling into fists before she spoke. “Kennedy.”

  Tremaine grabbed one torn ear and lifted Kennedy’s head off the ground. He shook her, hard enough to almost snap her neck, before letting go. The sound her jaw made against the floor made Patrick grind his teeth together.

  “Something tells me you’ve missed her.” Tremaine’s smile was nothing but sharp fangs. “You can have her back, but one of you must stay.”

  “We didn’t come here to negotiate,” Patrick said.

  Tezcatlipoca raised an eyebrow, his tone mocking when he said, “Didn’t you?”

  Patrick had little doubt their offer was a load of bullshit. Kennedy was living proof of their crimes, and they wouldn’t let her go without believing they could eliminate the evidence—all the evidence.

  And that was something Patrick could never allow.

  He readjusted his grip on the dagger and turned to offer it to Sage. She stared at him, gaze going bleak, somehow knowing exactly what it meant. “No.”

  “Yes,” Patrick told her quietly. “I need you to trust me.”

  He was used to playing games the gods dictated, but Sage wasn’t. Her weretiger form wouldn’t be enough to keep her safe once she left his side. His dagger might be. At the end of the day, Sage was his responsibility, pack or otherwise.

  Her expression twisted, but for all her background as lawyer, Sage didn’t argue. When she took the dagger from him, Patrick was reminded of that instant when he was a child, giving up everything to Persephone’s coaxing offer. Except he knew exactly what he was giving up here, and Patrick hoped with everything he had it was a temporary separation, one that wouldn’t last years or a lifetime.

  Death, he knew, didn’t always come quick.

  Then he turned to face Tezcatlipoca again. Patrick’s mouth curled at the corners, the sort of vicious, feral expression that wouldn’t be out of place on a battlefield. He was reminded of a lesson learned the hard way while serving in the Mage Corps—rules of engagement were for people who were never desperate.

  And Patrick was as desperate as they came.

  “What are your terms?”

  12

  Einar broke the tense silence with an annoyed snort. “Your self-preservation skills are lacking.”

  “My self-preservation skills are fucking amazing, don’t lie.” At the moment, they were telling Patrick to run, and he was ignoring them. “Unlike Tremaine here.”

  “I will take great pleasure in ripping out your tongue,” Tremaine promised.

  Cold sweat trickled down Patrick’s spine, but it wasn’t because of Tremaine’s threat. Tezcatlipoca had yet to look away, and the god’s regard was far too dangerous for any sort of comfort.

  “Promises, promises,” Patrick said, forcing his voice and heartbeat to remain even. “I still haven’t heard what you want.”

  “The Dominion Sect has promised me a great number of worshippers if we deliver you alive. I have seen what their promises mean where it concerns my cousins. I have little incentive to bargain with them,” Tezcatlipoca said.

  One of the cartel members stiffened at that announcement, his eyes narrowing. Patrick could see black concentric circles inked into the man’s palms, magic crackling at his fingertips. It reminded him of how Zachary Myers, Ethan’s right-hand acolyte, focused his magic. All magic users needed a focus of some sort, and permanently inked ones never seemed to go out of style.

  Patrick wondered what ties the stranger
had to the inner circles of the Dominion Sect, and just how many gods aligned with the hells Ethan was reaching out to, and why.

  “That so? I’m not a big fan of family reunions. The last one was a major buzzkill.”

  Patrick could think of a hundred reasons why Ethan would want him—none of them good, all of them involving a grave of some sort. Ethan had Macaria’s godhead, even if it wasn’t in his soul. Godhood came with a price, and Patrick wasn’t willing to pay it so his father could gain immortality.

  Except there was a barely breathing werelion sprawled on the floor that Patrick needed to get to safety. Choosing between Ethan and Tezcatlipoca wasn’t really a choice, but he wasn’t leaving Kennedy behind. It would cost him, but this wouldn’t be the first time Patrick traded himself for a hostage.

  I am never telling Gerard about this.

  “Your life for hers,” Tremaine said, gesturing carelessly at Kennedy’s prone form.

  “My life for theirs and hers,” Patrick countered, jerking his thumb in Sage and Einar’s direction.

  Tezcatlipoca smiled, eyes bright with malice above the face paint. “You are in no position to bargain.”

  “If you ignore the fact that I’m what you need as leverage against the Dominion Sect, then sure. You don’t really think they’ll follow through on whatever they promised you, do you? If you walk away from a broken promise, they’ll find you. The same way they found Ra and Hades and Zeus. And you’ll owe them, whether you like it or not.”

  Tezcatlipoca shrugged, the heron feathers on his headdress rippling from the motion. “Mortals cannot own me.”

  “With arrogance like that, you’ll only end up like Macaria. But if you have me, you’ve got a loophole.” Patrick spread his hands, taking a step forward. “I won’t even fight you. I’ve already given up my dagger. Just let them leave alive and you’ve got me. I’ll stay—”

  “For as long as he can,” Sage cut in tightly.

  As loopholes went, it wasn’t much to work with, but Patrick let her words fall between them, accepting her support. He knew better than most that gods were sometimes arrogant to a fault. Whether or not he’d be able to survive that arrogance was something else entirely.

  “No magic,” Tremaine said. “No guns. No weapons.”

  “Done,” Patrick promised, the weight of his acceptance like a vise around his lungs. I really need to stop selling off bits of my life like this.

  Tezcatlipoca waved a hand at Patrick. “So witnessed. You will take shine to seal the deal.”

  Patrick wanted to agree but choked on the words. Sage drew in a sharp breath, opening her mouth to argue. Einar wrapped his hand around her face to cover her mouth and block her words.

  “This is not your bargain to make,” Einar told her.

  “If you do not agree, the bargain is void, and this one”—Tremaine kicked Kennedy in the ribs, and Einar had to put Sage in a chokehold to keep her from going after the master vampire—“will not live to see the dawn.”

  Tremaine stared at Patrick, a twisted sense of superiority gleaming in his eyes that was a poor imitation of Lucien’s, and always would be. Lucien might pour what he was into his children’s making, but they were just shadows compared to him.

  Patrick licked his lips, knowing that taking shine was a risk he couldn’t walk away from. “Okay.”

  Sage made a sound that was more snarl than words. She elbowed Einar hard enough to draw a grunt from the vampire, and he let her go. She shoved him away and glared at Patrick. He expected her to yell, to protest, but Sage did none of those things.

  All she said was “You asked me to trust you, and I do. So don’t make me be the one to tell Jono he has to bury you.”

  Then she lifted her chin high and strode past Tezcatlipoca for where Kennedy lay on the floor. The magic beneath Sage’s feet didn’t bar her, and Patrick fought against the instinct to yank her out of the circle. Tremaine stepped between Sage and Kennedy, staring disdainfully down his nose at her.

  “The terms of the bargain were met. Give me Kennedy,” Sage demanded.

  “The mage takes shine, and then you may have your prize,” Tremaine said.

  Sage stared him down with a ferocity that made several cartel members look askance at her, wariness in their eyes.

  One of the lesser vampires came forward and poured several pills into Tremaine’s outstretched hand. Patrick dug out his car keys and unholstered his sidearm, passing both to Einar. “Tell Lucien he’ll still get what he wants.”

  “You dead?” Einar asked.

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “Real fucking funny.”

  The warrant had got them in, got them tortured proof, but they still needed to know the extent of Tremaine’s territory. Getting that information meant Patrick just had to survive an evening of drugged interrogation in order to get the lay of the land so to speak. Human laws wouldn’t be enough to tear down Tremaine’s Night Court, which was why Patrick hadn’t once mentioned arresting the bloodsucker. That was a laughable way forward with a god standing in his way.

  Einar stayed outside the circle as Patrick joined Sage in the center. Tremaine had an ugly, triumphant look on his face that Patrick itched to punch right off, but he kept his hands to himself. Behind the safety of his shields, Patrick dug deep into his scarred soul for that shining, resilient link that bound him to Jono. He refused to reach for Jono’s soul and use it to draw external magic from the ley lines and nexus buried deep beneath the earth. That power wouldn’t help him here, not bound by the promise he’d made.

  But he could make sure the soulbond stayed wide open between them.

  Find me, Patrick thought as he reached for one of the white pills with its pinprick of red-black in the center that Tremaine held out to him. You have to find me.

  He needed to believe that Jono would before it was too late.

  Patrick swallowed shine, and the chemical, rancid taste filled his mouth sickeningly quick. He gagged, the drug tasting how dead bodies smelled. Shine wasn’t a drug he was familiar with. He didn’t know how much time he had before the high kicked in, but Patrick still knew chasing it would fuck him up. It wasn’t meant to be taken by magic users. At the end of the day, they weren’t the food vampires craved.

  “Go,” Patrick told Sage.

  She knelt down and dragged Kennedy’s broken, battered body over her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. The sound Kennedy made was that of a wounded, dying animal, and Sage’s jaw tightened. Patrick’s dagger and sheath dangled from one of her hands, a hint of white, heavenly fire sparking along the edge where the hilt pressed against the leather. Patrick only hoped the borrowed magic in its making would keep her safe as an extension of keeping him alive.

  As Sage straightened up, dark fog twisted into existence at the four quadrant points of the circle. The fog rapidly solidified into jaguars, the same kind of constructs that had chased them through the subway on Saturday night.

  “Alive has many connotations,” Tezcatlipoca said, sounding viciously amused. “I suggest you run, daughter.”

  “Next time, you let me do all the talking from the start,” Sage told Patrick.

  Patrick appreciated her optimism. He’d appreciate it even more if they all survived this mess.

  Sage darted out of the circle in a blur of speed, jaguars giving chase between one breath and the next. Einar was a streak Patrick could barely follow, the vampire tossing what looked like a flash-bang at the jaguars but which turned out to be something better.

  The barrier ward that exploded between them crashed against Patrick’s shields. Embedded in the grenade was Nadine’s magic, part of the weaponry she’d left Lucien back in June as payment for his help. The feel of her magic was like a breath of fresh air through the haziness growing in his mind. It didn’t stop the jaguars, but it did stop the bullets from the cartel members. Patrick blinked rapidly, the brightness from the barrier ward not diminishing.

  A too-cold hand wrapped around his throat, sharp nails cutting into his skin. His head was je
rked around and Patrick found himself staring into Tremaine’s cold blue eyes, body outlined in soul light that never filled him.

  “I’m curious how you know Lucien,” Tremaine said, his thumb digging into the underside of Patrick’s jaw.

  The correct answer would always come down to Ashanti, but Patrick didn’t owe the vampire the truth. “I dialed a wrong number once. Meant to call a phone-sex hotline. Got a mass-murdering fuck-face instead.”

  Tremaine let Patrick go long enough to backhand him across the face with enough force to knock him to the ground. Pain spiked through his head from the blow, the magic making up the circles stinging his skin. Patrick blinked, shoving himself to a sitting position despite how much his head ached now.

  “Starting the interrogation early?” Patrick asked as he stared down Tremaine.

  The audience of humans and vampires were becoming a mix of incandescent fire and dark holes in his vision. Magic users of all kinds had the ability to see people’s auras, that extension of the human soul. All it took was a little magic to slip their vision sideways in order to see that brightness. They could handle it for a short period of time before they needed to revert back to normal eyesight to prevent damage.

  Mundane humans couldn’t see a person’s soul at all, not on their own. Shine made it so that no one could escape the burning brightness of auras, and the only reprieve was the emptiness that vampires carried because the undead had no souls.

  Patrick closed his eyes, but that didn’t help; he could still see the afterimage of shining souls on the back of his eyelids.

  A cold hand grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, the charms embedded in the leather enough to make Tremaine hiss, but not enough to make the vampire let him go. The thing about vampires was they could live long enough to survive the consequences of their actions, and tonight was no different. Patrick swallowed against the taste of the dead on his tongue as Tremaine hauled him to his feet. An unfamiliar high scratched at his mind, making the tips of his fingers tingle with a sensation Patrick rarely experienced outside of sex.