On the Wings of War (Soulbound Book 5)

by Hailey Turner

  “That doesn’t change the fact I’m going with you.”

  “You coming with me is a good way to piss them off and get hurt.”

  “None of us are safe anywhere. You know that. Stay, go, it doesn’t matter. Someone is always out to get us these days.”

  Whether gods, hunters, mercenary magic users, or rival god packs, they had giant targets painted on their backs. If Patrick couldn’t see they were stronger and safer together, Jono would have to argue with him until he did.

  “We risk losing too much if we all leave New York. Even with Emma as a secondary and proxy dire, that doesn’t fix the problem of us not being here,” Patrick said flatly.

  “I risk everything I care about by letting you fight alone. We tried that with Chicago, and look how things went pear-shaped.”

  The strain put on the soulbond by the distance between them had been hard, but being separated was worse. Not knowing what was happening with Patrick had been stressful. Jono didn’t regret the choices he’d made in Patrick’s absence, but he regretted the hurt it had caused the other man. Jono wasn’t willing to go through that again.

  Patrick’s mouth twisted, lips going white from the pressure. Jono reached up and pressed his fingers to the seam of them.

  “We’re a pack, remember?” Jono said softly. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “I’d come back,” Patrick said, breath ghosting over Jono’s fingers.

  He said that more these days—a promise that was I love you in sound, if not the right syllables. Jono had yet to hear those three words come out of Patrick’s mouth, but he didn’t miss them. He knew where they stood, and he wouldn’t change what they had.

  Sometimes, though, he wished Patrick wasn’t so bloody thick.

  Jono pulled his hand away, fitting it over Patrick’s hip and stepping closer so they stood chest to chest. “I know. But you have a tendency to try to martyr yourself, and I’m tired of watching you break yourself into pieces in order to stay alive.”

  Some of the anger faded from Patrick’s scent as he heaved out a sigh. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I know London better than you, Pat.”

  “It’s been years since you left. Things have probably changed. With our luck, it’s probably not good changes.”

  “We’ll sort it out when we get there. If we have to, I can track down some old mates. They might be able to help us get in touch with the London god pack on our terms.” Jono paused. “Or they’ll ignore us and warn everyone else I’m back.”

  Patrick took another sip of his beer, shifting beneath Jono’s touch but not pulling away. “Are you sure reaching out is a good idea?”

  Jono raised an eyebrow. “We can’t ignore the London god pack like you did the Chicago one.”

  “Hey, everything worked out in the end.”

  “We were lucky Naomi and Alejandro hated Estelle and Youssef more than our transgressions into their territory. The London god pack won’t care either way if we don’t ask for pass-through rights. They may deny us outright because of me.”

  “What’s the punishment for you going back after you were exiled?”

  Jono wasn’t going to lie to Patrick, but he wished Patrick had asked that question after their airplane tickets were bought. “The alphas at the time were adamant they’d kill me if I returned. They considered me abandoning them a betrayal.”

  Patrick scowled. “That’s bullshit. You were a fucking independent werecreature for the entire time you were there. You didn’t owe them shit back then. If they want any piece of you, they’ll need to go through me, and good fucking luck with that.”

  “I know.”

  Fenrir’s presence uncoiled in the back of Jono’s mind, clawing at his soul. They will not get the chance to harm you.

  A god’s promise was fickle, as Jono had come to learn through Patrick. They weren’t to be trusted, even if they owned your soul or lived in it.

  “We’ll make it work,” Jono promised in a gruff voice. “Emma will keep hold of our territory, and we’ll do what the gods require in London.”

  Patrick slumped forward and rested his forehead against Jono’s shoulder. “No chance I could convince you to stay behind?”

  “No.”

  “Not even with a blowjob?”

  Jono squeezed his hip. “Wouldn’t say no to that, but you need a kip and I need to get to work.”

  Patrick sighed heavily but didn’t move. “I want you safe.”

  “I’m safest right by your side. We’re better together. You know that.”

  Jono shifted a little, forcing Patrick to lift his head. Jono tipped Patrick’s chin up, leaning down to kiss him slow and deep, tasting the beer on his lips. If the gods wanted them to fight, then they would fight—together. Patrick needed to accept this was one argument he would never win.

  “You’re knackered. Go to bed and I’ll see you tonight,” Jono said after he broke the kiss.

  Patrick licked his lips. “You sure you don’t want that blowjob?”

  “No.”

  “Fine.”

  He sounded so grumpy that Jono could only laugh, despite everything going on. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Yeah. Leave me the car in case I need to go into the office.”

  Jono nodded, and Patrick tugged him down for one last kiss. He no longer smelled of anger, but the worry remained. Jono doubted it would ever go away.

  It was close to dawn on Saturday, last call fifteen minutes away, when the door to Tempest was pushed open and a familiar heartbeat filtered through Jono’s hearing. He looked up from drying a glass, watching as Patrick came his way. The only people in the bar besides them were the werewolf acting as a bouncer at the door and a group of witches who’d been consoling a member of their coven going through a breakup. Most of them weren’t capable of driving, and if they weren’t going to call a taxi or an Uber to get home, Jono would do it for them.

  “Hey,” Patrick said.

  His blank expression was all the hint Jono needed to know that Patrick had heard back from Setsuna. Jono nodded over at the only occupied table. “Let me get them sorted, and then we’ll chat.”

  It took upward of fifteen minutes to close out their tabs and get them a taxi with the help of their only sober friend. She tipped him well enough, and Jono handed the twenty dollars to his employee watching the door.

  “Head home. I’m closing up shop early,” Jono said.

  The werewolf didn’t argue, just took the money and left. On a hot night like this, no one had to grab any jackets from the employees-only room. Jono closed the door and locked it. The protective wards etched into the doorframe flared up brightly for a split second before the magic embedded in them faded away. When he turned around, Patrick was behind the bar, pulling a bottle of Macallan 12 Year whiskey off the shelf.

  “Did you drive?” Jono asked.

  “Parked out front in Marek’s spot,” Patrick said.

  When Marek had bankrolled the bar for Emma and Leon some years back, he’d bought rights to the parking spot directly out front on the street. It was convenient on nights like this.

  “If you’re drinking, then I’m driving.”

  Patrick pulled down two glasses. “We’re both drinking.”

  Jono scanned the dirty bar, mentally cataloguing everything that needed to be cleaned up before he left for the night, and opted to take a break. “All right.”

  Patrick placed both glasses on the bar counter and then wrote out a silence ward between them. The sigil glowed softly, the pale blue color of Patrick’s magic a familiar sight. Patrick’s bitter scent—a hint at the damage to his soul and magic—settled around them, telling Jono he’d lowered his shields. Beneath the bitterness was a tangle of sharper scents that always spoke of stress.

  “What did the government say?” Jono asked.

  Patrick took a sip of his whiskey before answering, looking out of place behind the bar. “They’ve agreed to Lucien’s terms. Mostly.”

  �
��Is mostly going to be enough?”

  “Probably? Setsuna told me the lawyers are arguing over the details right now. Lucien will take the invitation to help us retrieve the Morrígan’s staff in exchange for one hundred years of free passage through the United States’ borders and diplomatic immunity.”

  Jono winced. “He’s going to make a mess of things.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll be dead and gone when the agreement comes to an end.”

  “Your president is okay with making a deal like this?” Patrick shrugged, hunching his shoulders a little. Jono reached for his free hand so he could slide their fingers together. “Your name isn’t on that agreement. History won’t blame you for it.”

  “The decision is classified for national security reasons, but that won’t stop people from finding out the truth in the future.”

  “Not our problem. Not yet.”

  Patrick took another long swallow of his drink, putting a dent in what he’d already poured. Jono hoped he wouldn’t have a second glass. Patrick had given up smoking last year, but drinking away his stress was sometimes the choice he made when he could afford to. Old habits and vices were sometimes difficult to unlearn. For all the years that Jono had worked in pubs and bars to make ends meet, watching people drown their problems in drink was a common occurrence, and never the answer to anything.

  Jono didn’t much care for that habit, and he liked it even less when the man he loved gave in to it. If they were home, he’d do his best to distract Patrick with sex, but that wasn’t an option here.

  “Setsuna said it’ll be finalized by Lucien’s deadline. They’ve got the legal departments of two agencies and a military branch reviewing the agreement and parsing every single word. PIA Director Franklin is appointing one of his agents to meet me in London,” Patrick said.

  “Nadine?”

  Jono liked Patrick’s best friend. Nadine Mulroney was a lovely person with a spine of steel and got on well with the pack.

  Patrick shrugged. “I won’t know until I get to London. Reed has already ordered the invitation to be extracted from the Repository and escorted to DC for the handoff.”

  Jono raised an eyebrow. “That soon? When does Lucien leave?”

  “For DC? After sunset tonight. They want to brief him before dawn on Sunday, and he won’t go without Einar. Lucien has to at least pretend the sun is a problem for him.”

  “What about London?”

  “He leaves for that city on Monday.” Patrick drew in a breath. “Same day I do.”

  Jono tightened his grip. “We do.”

  Patrick made a face. “Yeah, all right. We already fought over that.”

  “Don’t be stroppy.”

  “I’m not.” Patrick took another sip of whiskey. “Could the British government stop you from entering the country?”

  “I don’t think so. I still have British citizenship. The London god pack was able to exile me from the city, but they didn’t have the political connections necessary to revoke anything else.”

  Patrick nodded slowly. “We can’t hide what you are, but I’ll tell Marek to reach out to his government handlers, and I’ll give Setsuna a heads-up. He can let them know you need clearance. Maybe that will help our chances on the other side of the Atlantic.”

  “Lying about his visions is a federal crime.”

  “Who’s going to question him?”

  Jono snorted and let go of Patrick’s hand to join him behind the bar. He cupped Patrick’s jaw with one hand, smoothing his thumb over a lightly freckled cheek. Patrick met his gaze without blinking, and Jono didn’t hesitate to kiss him, slow and sweet, sharing the breath between them.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Jono murmured against his lips. “We always do.”

  “One of these days our luck will run out.”

  Jono squeezed Patrick’s hip with his other hand, holding him close. “Luck has nothing to do with any of this.”

  If anything, it was the Fates, but Jono had come to terms with what Patrick meant to him months ago. He loved Patrick because he could, because he wanted to, and no god would ever tell him otherwise.

  “London’s calling,” Jono said. “We better answer.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes and pulled Jono down for another kiss. “At least you have decent taste in music.”

  Jono laughed against Patrick’s mouth, refusing to give in to the worry eating at the back of his mind. They’d find out soon enough what problems waited for them across the pond.

  5

  The last time Jono had walked through London Heathrow, he’d been on the Departures level, leaving with a rucksack, a carry-on, and the bitter memory of being unwanted following him to the States. Heathrow was the same sort of hamster maze Jono remembered from years ago, but at least this time he wasn’t fighting the crowds alone.

  Jono reached out and hooked a finger over the collar of Wade’s T-shirt, hauling the teenager away from the direction of the Costa stand just outside the passport control area.

  “No,” Jono said in a firm voice. “You ate on the plane.”

  “But I’m hungry. It feels like it should be dinner, not lunch,” Wade grumbled.

  “If he has coffee, he’ll stay up until tonight, and that will help with the jet lag,” Sage said as she tucked her passport into the oversized Louis Vuitton tote bag she’d traveled with.

  Wade scowled. “Jet lag is for the weak.”

  Jono let Wade go, reaching up to shove his sunglasses higher on his nose. Getting through Customs had taken longer for Jono than the other two, but not nearly as long as Patrick. While the agent overseeing his queue had pulled Jono aside for further questioning, he at least hadn’t been escorted to a private room like Patrick had been.

  Having Patrick out of his sight didn’t help the tension in Jono’s shoulders. He couldn’t blame the tightness on shit sleep for the overnight flight, not when Sage had booked them all first-class tickets since those were the only ones available last minute. No, his anxiety had everything to do with the proverbial English soil he was standing on for the first time in years.

  Sage grabbed the handle of her carry-on and nodded at the sign indicating the location of the car hire desk. “We need to get a car.”

  “The Tube is the easiest way around London,” Jono said.

  “But not the quickest on short notice. Patrick is going to need a car, and so will we.”

  “Do I get one?” Wade asked.

  “No,” Jono and Sage said in unison.

  Wade rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I’m getting coffee.”

  He ran off before Jono could tell him to stick close. Sage shook her head at Jono. “Let him have the coffee.”

  “He’s going to be bouncing off the bloody walls,” Jono said with an irritated sigh.

  “When isn’t he?”

  Wade made it back to them with coffee in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other well before Patrick finally escaped Customs. Patrick’s dark red hair was easy to spot in the sea of people he cut through to get to them once he was finally cleared.

  “What took you so long?” Wade asked.

  Patrick scowled. “They needed to double-check my credentials and the paperwork for my dagger. Long blades are restricted in this country.”

  He’d left his gun at home, because the UK’s Department for Witchcraft and Supernatural Affairs had refused to clear any firearms for the SOA. The WSA had argued that Patrick was a mage and his magic would be enough within the country’s borders. Jono had listened to Patrick whinge about how magic wasn’t always the answer on the entire drive to JFK Airport yesterday. It wasn’t new information. Patrick defaulted to his sidearm or dagger as often as he used his magic in a fight.

  “Let’s get our cars and get out of here,” Patrick said.

  “Do you even know how to drive on the wrong side of the road?” Wade asked.

  “Shut it,” Jono said. “You Yanks are the ones who do everything backward.”

  Wade arched an eyebrow in supreme teenag
ed judgment. “Mr. Green Card over here doesn’t think he’s a Yank.”

  “Have you heard his accent?” Patrick asked.

  “I’m surrounded by his accent now.”

  Jono shoved Wade toward the car hire counter. “Let’s go. We need to get the cars and our luggage, and then head for the hotel.”

  “We could’ve stayed at the Dorchester,” Sage said with a deep sigh.

  “The government doesn’t pay for comfort,” Patrick reminded her.

  The rest of them could have stayed at the Dorchester, but the pack was sticking together, and since Patrick’s job dictated their movements in terms of lodging, they’d gone with the Sanderson London.

  Getting there took time. They had to confirm their car reservations, get their luggage, and then go retrieve their rentals at the offsite lot. Jono had spent years driving an automatic in New York when he got behind the steering wheel at all. Having to drive a manual again required dredging up the skill from the back of his mind. When he inevitably ground the gears together, Patrick gave him a sidelong look.

  “Should I drive?” Patrick asked.

  Jono rolled his eyes. “No.”

  It came back to him—the manual driving, the city streets, and the people who sounded like he did. Driving into London after years of being away was a shock to the system that left Jono at a loss for words for miles on end.

  “Are you all right?” Patrick asked when they were some distance down the M4.

  “I will be,” Jono said, refusing to lie.

  Patrick reached over and settled his hand on Jono’s left thigh, his touch familiar in a way London hadn’t been at the end.

  “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Patrick promised.

  Jono smiled tightly, teeth clenched together. “This isn’t your jurisdiction. Don’t do anything that might get you arrested.”

  “I’ll have some legal authority with whoever I end up working with out of the WSA.”

  “Your badge isn’t going to get you out of trouble like it does in the States.”

  “The gods will.”