All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2)

by Hailey Turner

  “He’s never shifted mass before, much less flown,” Patrick replied.

  “You can’t keep him from his heritage. This is instinct.”

  “I’m not the one who kept him for cage fights.”

  “I am aware of that. Drop your shields.”

  Patrick didn’t want to, but he knew if he didn’t, the god would rip them down himself. He drew down his magic, wincing at the rawness in his soul as he did so. Jono growled but Patrick refused to look at him, to use him, ignoring the way the soulbond tightened in his soul.

  Quetzalcoatl threw back his head and let out a roar that sounded like nothing else on earth. It made every hair on Patrick’s head stand on end, caused the nerves in his teeth to tingle. Jono echoed the roar with a howl that Sage answered. Patrick was relieved to discover she wasn’t dead.

  His relief was short-lived as Wade reacted to Quetzalcoatl’s call by shifting mass completely in a way the building couldn’t handle.

  “Get to the street!” Patrick yelled as Wade’s back arched, body growing, his wings flopping with every thrashing step he took.

  A blur of orange and black darted out from beneath Wade’s clawed feet, dodging the long tail that smacked against the floor. People screamed, almost everyone’s attention on the dragon shifting in their midst. Shots rang out as pistols and rifles alike were trained on Wade, but not even spelled bullets could pierce a dragon’s scaled hide. All the bullets served was to irritate Wade, and in his panic, the teenager in a fledgling dragon’s body hurtled himself toward the front of the club.

  The door definitely wasn’t big enough for him now.

  Jono shoved at Patrick with his head and they started running, with Sage right beside them now. He kept his shields up as Wade ran straight through the front wall of the building, creating a hole that took out a good chunk of the first- and second-floor wall in that area, along with the wards. The entire building shook, plaster falling down around them from the ceiling high above.

  Quetzalcoatl’s voice drifted out from the depths of the club behind them, sounding like the roar of a tornado. “Brother, I have missed you.”

  They raced out of the building through the hole Wade had made. The flashing lights from police cars at either end of the block and in the street flickered in Patrick’s eyes. His group wasn’t the only one racing to escape the hellhole the Crimson Diamond had become. Cartel members, vampires, and traumatized guests were right behind them. Every cop, DEA, and SOA agent around them didn’t know where to fucking shoot first—but when in doubt, go for the biggest target.

  Wade’s center mass was the size of a bus, the long type with six wheels and a center accordion-style connection. Add in his tail, which was just as long but tapered to a pitchfork point, and Wade was big. His wings stretched out and away from his body, the leading edges banging against the buildings on either side of the street as he turned, gouging through the structures. Debris fell to the street, causing officers to scramble to safety.

  His wedge-shaped head at the end of a long neck ducked down, one big golden eye with its reptilian pupil staring right at them. Wade opened his mouth, but instead of words coming out, a ball of fire erupted from between his sharp teeth to explode on the street between where they stood and the first responders who were looking like prey to the jaguars.

  Wade, for all that he was a fledging dragon impervious to bullets, was still a scared teenager who didn’t deserve to be tormented like this.

  “Fly!” Patrick yelled over the burst of gunfire that ricocheted off Wade’s scaly body.

  Wade twisted his body, tail slamming against the opposite building and sending chunks of the façade and glass raining down on the sidewalk. He folded his wings in tight before snapping them out again, eyes locked on Patrick as smoke drifted out of his nostrils.

  Like Quetzalcoatl had said, it was all instinct, and the body knew what to do even if the mind didn’t. Wade launched himself into the air with furious flaps of his large wings, escaping gravity despite his size. The police and federal agents seemed to think twice about firing into the air after him. Patrick could only hope no one would corner the kid before he could—somehow—find Wade again.

  Someone landed in front of Patrick, startling him badly. Jono jerked his head around to bite them, but his teeth never made contact. Lucien slammed the butt of his rifle against Jono’s nose, causing the werewolf to jerk his head aside, blood pouring from his nostrils from the unexpected hit. Lucien was covered in blood, his mouth smeared with it in the balaclava’s opening, testimony to however many throats he’d torn out in the club and below.

  “Back the fuck off,” Lucien snapped.

  “You fuck off,” Patrick shot back, resting his hand on the top of Jono’s huge head in a comforting manner.

  Lucien’s attention wasn’t on them but the master vampire standing across the street. Wade had hidden Tremaine from sight, but there was nothing separating them now. The master vampire stood beside Santa Muerte, a worshipper given the blessing of death herself and all the favor that entailed.

  “Is this how you turn your back on your mother, Tremaine?” Lucien said, voice carrying over the noise of the crowd. “Offer yourself to the first god who would accept your lies?”

  “Ashanti hasn’t spoken to me in decades. What use is a mother who disappears when death herself favors me?” Tremaine spat back.

  The wind picked up, the heavy heat in the air disappearing in the face of a chilly breeze that got stronger. It reminded Patrick of the drive-by shooting and the gale force winds that had blown over him. Santa Muerte’s dress rippled in the wind, stretching into shadows that turned into a shroud. It wrapped itself around Tremaine’s body, hiding him from view and the bullets Lucien shot in their direction.

  The jaguars at the perimeter roared in tandem, but they couldn’t drown out the sound of the wind building all around them.

  Coming from behind them.

  Patrick’s eyes widened as the wind picked up, screaming in his ears. He threw himself at Jono, getting a tight grip on the scruff of Jono’s neck. “Get clear!”

  Jono leaped forward, Sage right by their side, putting much-needed distance between them and the Crimson Diamond. Patrick held on for all he was worth as the crowd panicked even more.

  Lucien ran, a shadowy blur that beat them to the outskirts of the police line. Jono’s paws crunched a few squad car hoods and trunks as he got them out of the danger zone. Other members of Lucien’s Night Court appeared on the street around them, their arrival drawing attention from the police, but not for long.

  Wind exploded over the street as if a tornado touched down, the force of it driving everyone to their knees or bowling them over completely. It was powerful enough to move vehicles, sending more than one squad car screeching over the asphalt. Jono and Sage leaned in close to protect Patrick from the supernatural strength of it, their claws biting into asphalt. Even Patrick’s shields couldn’t keep it out because it was no ordinary wind.

  The roaring sound got louder, hitting a decibel that threatened to rupture eardrums. Then the roof of the Crimson Diamond exploded outward, a golden light as bright as the sun shining through the opening. Debris rained down on the street as people struggled to find cover, and Patrick wasn’t the only magic user who cast shields over those who couldn’t.

  Rising out of the damaged building in a vortex of air came a shining, writhing feathered serpent wrapped tight around a huge jaguar clawing at its body. Both were twice the size of Wade’s dragon form, the auras of gods pouring out of their bodies.

  Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca, locked in combat, rose into the sky above Manhattan. Patrick couldn’t be sure if the sound in his ears was the wind or their screams. He shielded his eyes from the sight, the primordial power pouring out of the pair painfully bright against the night sky.

  Then the two gods exploded with a sonic boom heard in all five boroughs, rings of magic rippling like a shock wave through the air high above New York City.

  21
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br />   The furious roar of the wind abruptly stopped, drifting into a breeze that barely ruffled his clothes. Patrick let go of Jono and got to his feet, holding his rifle close.

  “Did all your people get clear?” Patrick asked Lucien.

  The master vampire ejected the magazine in his M4A1 carbine and reloaded, ignoring the question. “This isn’t over. Your promise to me hasn’t been kept.”

  Tremaine was still out there. Standing with Santa Muerte, he’d chosen his side despite being Lucien’s once and—

  Patrick’s thoughts came to a screeching, brain-rattling halt.

  “Tremaine is yours.”

  Lucien gave him a scornful look. “Yes.”

  Tremaine was Lucien’s, whether on the run or not. They’d cornered him, and Patrick knew from painful personal experience just how much Lucien hated to be cornered.

  “What happened in Stănileşti?” Patrick demanded, taking a step forward.

  Lucien’s black eyes narrowed to slits. “We burned the buildings to the ground with all the soldiers in them, but they had mage priests we could not fight against and win.”

  Tremaine didn’t have any manpower left for him to wreak havoc like that, but he had a god. One god, one powerful god who personified death, along with his own sadistic upbringing. Tremaine’s words and his raw pride flashed through Patrick’s mind.

  He could barely get his numb lips to shape the syllables. “He learned that lesson well.”

  “And what lesson is that? I taught him many.”

  Raze and ruin and Stănileşti.

  Lucien was known in history for his salted-earth policy. For leaving nothing behind that his enemies could possibly use while he moved on—exactly what Tremaine was doing now. Only tonight it wasn’t about a town where two armies went to war against a Night Court but a huge metropolitan city held up by tunnels that could bring it tumbling down around the lives of millions of people.

  The body count this time would be one for the history books.

  “He’s still in the fucking subway tunnels. The barrier ward won’t be enough as a patch if they break the anchors,” Patrick said, mouth gone bone-dry.

  He fumbled out his phone from his pocket, dialing Casale’s personal line. It picked up almost immediately.

  “What the fuck was that light show just now?” Casale demanded. “And was that a dragon that just flew overhead?”

  “Evacuate the subways and Grand Central. Don’t let anyone inside. I’m coming to you,” Patrick said.

  “Collins—”

  “Santa Muerte is still here, Casale. She’s still looking for sacrifices, and they’re going to blow the fucking protective wards in the subway to sacrifice everyone in it to power their prayers to her. I need to know where the central anchor point for the protective wards is located.”

  “It’s in the M42 sub-basement here in Grand Central. I’ll send—”

  “You’ll send no one. I just said keep everyone the fuck out of there. I’ll deal with Tremaine and Santa Muerte.” Patrick ended the call. “Rats and their fucking tunnels.”

  “We need transport to Grand Central,” Lucien said.

  Carmen slipped past Einar, nodding at the squad cars closest to them. “Keys are still in the ignition.”

  Looked like they were stealing a couple of cop cars.

  They’d be noticed instantly, and Patrick didn’t have time to talk about why he and a bunch of vampires needed the vehicles. Áłtsé Hashké made sure he didn’t have to.

  “They will not see you leave,” the god said.

  The world slowed around them, as if time was standing still when Patrick knew that was impossible. Áłtsé Hashké stood on the outskirts of the crowd of frozen police officers and federal agents. The trickster god watched them with unblinking yellow eyes, mouth quirked at the corners, as if he knew a secret none of them were privy to.

  “That building is about to come down. The werecreatures we saved don’t deserve to die in it,” Patrick said.

  “The children will be kept safe.”

  Patrick knew better than to ask for a promise from a god, so he kept his mouth shut. He looked at Jono and Sage, realizing their bulk wouldn’t fit in the back seat of any car.

  “Can you keep up?” Patrick asked.

  Both of them nodded their large heads, and Patrick took their silent confirmation at face value. He climbed into the driver’s seat of the nearest cop car, unsurprised when Lucien joined him. Lucien didn’t bother with a seat belt, too interested in the computer setup hooked to the dash.

  Patrick put the car in reverse, slammed his foot on the gas pedal, and hit the sirens. The world snapped back to normal once he hit the cross-street with Jono and Sage pacing the vehicle.

  The drive uptown to Grand Central was chaotic, but they got there. Jono and Sage easily kept up. The three cop cars and two werecreatures made a strange sight on the street, but the white vehicles with blue-striped NYPD detailing were enough to keep everyone out of their way.

  Manhattan was a grid laid out in one-way streets. They took Sixth Avenue all the way up to East Forty-Second Street. The closer they got, the more crowded it got. A sea of people was moving away from the transit hub on order of the police. Some of them started panicking once they caught sight of Jono and Sage, and that was a stampede Patrick didn’t need to deal with.

  Patrick parked and left the keys in the ignition. Jono and Sage moved up to stand beside him as Einar, Carmen, and half a dozen other vampires who’d ridden in the other two cars joined them.

  “You’re gonna get shot with that balaclava on your face,” Patrick said as he started forward.

  “Then you better make sure we don’t,” Lucien replied.

  Patrick conjured up a mageglobe, filling it with a look-away ward. He pushed his magic out of his soul, the familiar twisting sparks of the spell drifting all around them. It wouldn’t make them invisible, but it would hopefully keep anyone from thinking Lucien and his vampires were the enemy and shooting them on sight.

  Patrick kept himself, Jono, and Sage, outside the spell, needing to be seen. Jono lengthened his stride to take point, his massive bulk clearing them a way through the crowd faster than Patrick could have on his own.

  Up ahead, the windows lining the walls of Grand Central were completely dark, as if all the light inside had gone out. The pitch-blackness pressing against the glass didn’t look right. Patrick held his M4A1 carbine close against his body as he ran, yanking his SOA badge out from beneath the tactical vest he wore as he did so.

  As they got closer, the crowd of commuters thinned out into lines of police. He raked his gaze over the officers working crowd control, trying to find Casale. Over the noise of people yelling, distant sirens and honking horns, the sharp caw of a raven sent a chill down his spine.

  Patrick’s gaze snapped up, locking on the pair of ravens perched on top of the statue of Mercury above the Tiffany clock on the building’s façade. Larger than normal ravens, with wings half-spread, they looked right at him, right through him. Unlike with Tremaine, Patrick couldn’t keep Huginn and Muninn out of his mind.

  They desire what only war should carry, the ravens said, their voices cracking open a headache in his brain. The dead will not rest.

  “Collins!”

  Casale’s shout had Patrick shaking his head hard to clear it. When he looked back at the statue, the ravens were gone. As warnings went, those two were damn unhelpful.

  “Casale,” Patrick yelled back, flashing his badge at a couple of cops standing at the perimeter on the intersection to get by. “Is Grand Central evacuated?”

  Casale stood at the southwest entrance into the terminal, a statue of an eagle with its wings spread situated above the doors. The shadows that Patrick could see through the doors pressed right up against the threshold, so black he couldn’t make out anything inside.

  “We don’t know how many civilians are left inside,” Casale said in a tight voice, one hand gripping a radio. “Everything just went dark about
five minutes ago. Anyone who goes in doesn’t come out, and radios go to static. MTA officials are still in the master control room, but we can’t reach them.”

  “Trains are still running?”

  Casale gave a grim nod. “Still running to offload their passengers into the nearest stations if possible.”

  Patrick tightened his grip on his rifle before unclipping the strap from his tactical vest. “Take this. It’s only going to get in my way.”

  He needed his hands free for what he was going to find inside Grand Central Terminal. After all, bullets wouldn’t kill a god.

  Casale took the rifle with a dubious expression on his face. “What are you doing?”

  “My job.”

  “You aren’t going in there without backup.”

  Patrick let his look-away ward drop as he unsheathed his dagger. Casale did a double take at Lucien and the others’ seemingly sudden appearance.

  “I have my backup. I just need to know where the entrance to the M42 sub-basement is.”

  Casale looked like he wanted to argue when Hermes slipped between two police officers and jogged over. He wore the same DEA uniform as before, and the smirk he directed at Casale made the PCB chief scowl at him.

  “I’ll take them,” Hermes said, grabbing Patrick by the arm and hauling him down the sidewalk to the main entrance on East 42nd Street.

  “You just don’t want your statue to get blown up,” Patrick said under his breath.

  Hermes shrugged, though he didn’t let Patrick go, eliciting a warning growl from Jono. “They got my name wrong when they built it. Here. You’ll need this.”

  Hermes took Patrick’s free hand and pressed a single Greek obal against his palm. Patrick curled his fingers around the gold coin, heart beating fast in his chest. “This feels all kinds of familiar.”

  “The coin was taken from the seer’s home. It is the only one I am giving you.”

  Patrick looked down at the coin and the massive amount of magic it carried in its tiny form—enough to power a barrier ward.

  “Why?”

  Hermes smiled grimly as he hauled open a door, the shadowy blackness behind it reaching for them. “Because Persephone isn’t pleased with Santa Muerte trying to take your soul.”