On the Wings of War (Soulbound Book 5)

by Hailey Turner

  “Gods fucking damn it. You can’t get sucked into pack politics right now.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t mean I can ignore whatever the fuck is going on. We needed the pass-through rights so I could work without drawing attention to us. The WSA doesn’t need to know I have a pack.”

  “We need to focus on the auction. Pack politics are not the mission.”

  “I am aware of that, but what are the fucking odds that Estelle and Youssef hire a bunch of hunters to come after us and the packs under our protection earlier this year, and the London god pack has been infiltrated by one?”

  Nadine scowled out the windshield. “It could be coincidence.”

  “Coincidence doesn’t fucking happen in my life when the Fates are looking over my shoulder.”

  “You can’t fix the London god pack.”

  “I’m not gonna fucking try. But I still have to deal with them, and if they’re being led by a demon, like hell am I going against them alone. We’re already dealing with a bunch of necromancers, demons just make it worse.”

  “You can’t tell the WSA about the London god pack. They’ll want to know how you learned that information.”

  “I know. We aren’t telling them anything, same way we aren’t telling them the location and date of the auction. But we still need help.”

  “Gerard?”

  “No. I asked Setsuna to have your director put Spencer on a plane.”

  Nadine groaned. “Patrick.”

  “He was read into the joint task force back in December. It’ll be fine.”

  “He ruined my Alexander McQueen dress the last time we were all together!”

  “Technically, the zombie ruined it.”

  Nadine smacked Patrick in the arm without looking. “He owes me a new dress.”

  “Then you can tell him to pay up in person. He flies out tonight and gets into London tomorrow.”

  PIA Special Agent Spencer Bailey had fought with them on occasion in the Mage Corps. Like Nadine, he’d never been assigned permanently to a team or a base, but moved around on an as-needed basis. Spencer was a soulbreaker with an affinity for the dead. If they were going up against the Orthodox Church of the Dead and a demon-led god pack, Patrick wanted someone on their side who could put the dead to rest and exorcise demons.

  The three of them were friendly even though they never got to see each other very much. Patrick used to fly across the country for cases while Nadine was stationed out of Paris, and Spencer called San Francisco home whenever he was stateside. Patrick didn’t know what Spencer’s job entailed in the nitty-gritty, just that his magic was in high demand.

  “Is he coming on official orders or no?” Nadine asked.

  “The orders are official, but Reed doesn’t want his presence announced to the WSA or anyone else outside the joint task force.” Patrick glanced at her. “You know how people get about his kind of magic.”

  “That’s going to be a headache trying to keep Spencer off the grid. Is he traveling on an alias?”

  Patrick shrugged, switching lanes again. “Your guess is as good as mine. He’ll tell us his cover if he has one when he gets here.”

  “Let’s hope they have decent coffee at the meeting. I need something stronger than tea this morning,” Nadine said, rubbing at her forehead.

  “You and me both.”

  They weren’t heading to the WSA headquarters, but to Winfield House, the place where they had been ordered to meet with the PIA’s permanent liaison officer. Patrick knew they could be tracked on the CCTV that saturated London, but there was no getting around that, especially when it came to diplomatic property.

  Magic made spying a hell of a lot more difficult though, even with modern tools at hand. They’d meet with their WSA counterparts in the afternoon, but right now they had to focus on their own country’s needs. International cooperation only extended so far, and PIA Special Agent Gael Santiago’s loyalty was to the United States of America first, no one else second.

  Patrick followed the GPS route to Regent’s Park where Winfield House was located. The residence was home to the Ambassador of the United States of America, which offered up a space for diplomatic protection for their meeting.

  They were stopped at iron gates that towered over the narrow road, the wards etched into iron scratching at Patrick’s shields. The tips on every other spiked rod were coated in silver, and he could sense the building’s foundational wards stretching through the acres of greenery between the walls surrounding it.

  A pair of armed guards exited the guardhouse beyond the closed gates. Patrick looked around the area, spotting several discreetly placed security cameras that probably didn’t account for all of them. They’d most likely been tracked half a mile out.

  One of the guards stayed in position ahead of them as the other guard opened one side of the gate. Patrick rolled down his window as the woman came over to his side of the car, a no-nonsense look on her face.

  “Identification?” she demanded.

  Nadine passed over her PIA badge, and Patrick offered up his SOA one. The guard compared their faces to the photos printed on the badges before walking back to the guardhouse to further confirm their identities. They waited patiently, car idling, before the guard returned with their badges.

  “Permission to enter has been granted.”

  Patrick could feel it in the wards, the way the magic embedded in the brick and iron and dirt eased back from his senses. He let out a heavy breath as he pressed the button to roll up the window.

  “Ambassador homes take some getting used to,” Nadine said as the guard opened the other half of the iron gate to give them clear passage through.

  “And I thought the Pentagon was bad,” Patrick muttered as he drove forward.

  They made their way up the drive to the Neo-Georgian town house. Up ahead, the red-and-white brick façade stood out against the sleekly mowed green lawn and trees thick with leaves. To the left was a stretch of cultivated gardens that ran up against the house.

  It was difficult to see London beyond the treetops, and the city noise was lessened by the greenery, but not by much. Patrick parked out front of the main entrance. As they got out of the car, a staff member exited the front door, giving them a polite nod in greeting.

  “Special Agents Collins and Mulroney,” the woman said, her American accent a little jarring after days of being surrounded by British ones. “You’re late.”

  “We were held up by a case matter,” Patrick said easily.

  She didn’t seem impressed with that excuse. “Special Agent Santiago is waiting.”

  Patrick shared a look with Nadine before following their escort inside Winfield House. The second Patrick crossed the threshold, a shock of magic ran through him, cutting across his shields. The searching spell wasn’t subtle, and he rolled his shoulders to shake off the tingles skittering through his nerves.

  “Apologies about the threshold, but it’s for our protection,” the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. She waved them over to a small side table situated between the women’s bathroom and a small office in a foyer lit by a crystal chandelier. “Hospitality first.”

  “Really?” Patrick couldn’t help but ask.

  The woman held up a small plate filled with miniature pastries and gestured at the two glasses of water for their use. “Hospitality, if you please.”

  Nadine nudged him in the side with a subtle jab of her elbow as she approached the table. Patrick rolled his eyes but joined her. They took the food and drink on offer beneath the woman’s watchful gaze.

  “Be welcome in the ambassador’s home,” she said.

  The pressure against his shields eased but didn’t completely fade away. The magic was decades old, layers upon layers set into the building’s foundation, and about as subtle as a missile strike.

  The woman smiled at them once they weren’t struck from the earth and led them out of the foyer into the cream-and-red-themed Reception Room. Everything looked a little vintage in
that museum-quality way that always made Patrick want to leave fingerprints everywhere just to spite the owners—in this case, the United States government.

  They veered right into the Garden Room, and Patrick was overwhelmed by the amount of green in the room. Not just the plants, but the antique Chinese wallpaper, the upholstery on half the furniture, and a good portion of the artwork.

  “It looks like a jungle threw up in here,” Patrick said.

  Nadine shot him a quelling look he pretended not to see. Their escort cleared her throat, and the middle-aged man in the dark suit seated on a vintage-looking couch raised his head. The vague annoyance on his face didn’t clear once he saw them. Recognition hit Patrick’s magic with a subtle scrape of power—warlock, and shielded tight.

  “Thank you,” Special Agent Gael Santiago said in a crisp voice that hinted at a Texas drawl. “That will be all.”

  Their escort left, but privacy was difficult to come by in a building Patrick knew was always targeted by foreign intelligence organizations. The heavy thresholds and wards surrounding the town house made sense even if they were uncomfortable.

  Gael got to his feet, and Nadine closed the distance between them, Patrick on her heels. Gael extended his hand in greeting, grip firm when he shook Patrick’s hand.

  “You’re late,” Gael said.

  “Something came up,” Nadine replied smoothly.

  “Hopefully not mission critical.”

  Nadine shrugged one shoulder. “Critical enough.”

  Gael took his seat again and waved at all the empty ones around them. “Sit. Mulroney, cast a silence ward.”

  Patrick ground his teeth against the desire to mouth off at Gael’s casual demand. The guy outranked them both, but his attitude annoyed Patrick. Nadine still did as she was ordered, and wrote out the silence ward onto the low table in the center of the conversation circle. Her magic glowed a soft violet before fading away, static washing around them in a bubble of quiet.

  Patrick ignored the way his ears popped in favor of studying an agent he’d never met before and could’ve gone the rest of his life without meeting. Gael was tall and broad-shouldered, filling out a Hugo Boss suit that would’ve looked better on Jono. His black hair was that particular black men sported when they refused to cop to dyeing it.

  At forty-six, Gael had the start of crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, and a sternness to his face that spoke of little humor in his life. Patrick knew some people lived for their job, and he used to be like that until Jono showed him a better way. It was advice he wasn’t going to give Gael.

  “I understand the WSA believes the auction is happening next week. What does the invitation say?” Gael said.

  Patrick blinked, staring at him. “How much of the mission were you read in on?”

  Gael smiled thinly. “Enough that I know about the invitation.”

  “Do you know what we’re after?” At Gael’s silence, Patrick shook his head. “And the CI? Did anyone tell you about them?”

  More people knew about the invitation than he was comfortable with, but that decision wasn’t his to make. Judging by Gael’s reactions, Patrick could hope that Setsuna and the rest of the powers that be had locked down everything else to Eyes Only.

  “Ah.” Gael leaned back and gestured at nothing with one hand. “Our director refused to disclose the identity of your CI or what you are after.”

  He sounded indifferent about that, but Patrick knew it was all a lie. When your entire job was learning secrets, not knowing something rankled. While Patrick knew they were supposedly all on the same side, the betrayal he’d dealt with in the SOA just last summer had him not appreciating Gael’s attitude, and trust was a long way off in a situation like this.

  “If you weren’t read in, then what are the parameters of your orders?” Patrick asked.

  Gael’s expression was impossible to read. “Whatever Director Franklin needs.”

  Patrick bit his tongue. He fucking hated politics and all the ways a person could say nothing at all. “Need isn’t the same thing as permission.”

  “We’re all on the same side here, Collins.”

  Patrick kept stubbornly silent at that remark. Gael studied him in a way Patrick disliked, but he refused to break eye contact.

  “If I’m to help throw up distractions with our allies so we can claim whatever it is you’re after at the auction, I need information,” Gael said evenly.

  “So do we, and that’s why we’re here. Mulroney asked for a status update on the London god pack. Do you have it or not?”

  Gael glanced from Patrick to Nadine. “It was an odd request, considering they haven’t been flagged as a problem.”

  “Did you find anything?” Nadine asked.

  Gael picked up a sleek briefcase from the floor near his feet and set it on the table. He withdrew a folder from within and flipped it open, passing over a copy of a photograph. Patrick took it with a cold knot in his stomach.

  The picture was taken with a long lens, blown up and pixelated at the edges, but the two people fucking in the apartment bed were still identifiable. Cressida’s profile was familiar as she rode Dillon Rossiter, who looked like he was enjoying himself as much as she was despite the blood streaked between them.

  “Did they murder someone, or is that just how they like sex?” Patrick asked.

  “Dublin has quite a few unsolved missing person cases. If there was a body, it was disposed of.” Gael shook his head. “I had an analyst do a review of case files the PIA has handled in the last five years for the werecreature communities in the British Isles and that came up. Offshoot evidence of a potions trafficking ring, but no evidence stuck to them.”

  “Rossiter is fae. He’d claim diplomatic immunity, no matter how thin his blood ties.”

  “Cressida Moore can’t.” Gael glanced at Nadine, raising an eyebrow. “You wanted to know if the London god pack was up to anything beyond the usual. Her ties to Rossiter could become a problem with the upcoming auction. I’m curious what made you ask in the first place.”

  “Our CI wanted assurances they wouldn’t be hassled while in London,” Patrick answered before Nadine could. “They’ve had run-ins with the New York City god pack and didn’t want the same kind of problems here.”

  More like Lucien had torn up all bargains and treaties when he took over the Manhattan Night Court. These days, the rest of the Night Courts in the five boroughs toed his line while Estelle and Youssef’s god pack had lost territory on all fronts. Lucien wasn’t a good neighbor unless people wanted a war. In which case, he’d happily bring it to their doorsteps.

  “You can tell your CI that Cressida has previous ties to the auctioneer. Whether or not those ties are still viable is inconclusive at this time, but I’d counsel toward yes.”

  “Thank you,” Nadine said. “Do you have anything else for us?”

  “No.” Gael retrieved the photograph and called up a spark of fire with his magic to burn it to ash. Patrick hoped it wouldn’t set off the sprinklers. “I’ll do what Director Franklin wants, but if you require backup, reach out. I’m sure you can always use an extra set of hands and some decent magic, Mulroney.”

  Patrick ignored the veiled insult to his diminished magic and rank, used to the subtle disdain that colored his professional interactions.

  “If those in charge clear you, sure,” Patrick replied lightly with a sharp smile.

  The PIA wasn’t his agency, and he was playing nice for Nadine’s sake. But Patrick’s instructions came from the SOA as much as the gods, and Gael wasn’t close to the clearance level needed for him to be read in on the nitty-gritty details of the hunt for the Morrígan’s staff. Reed had been firm regarding the restrictions surrounding the joint task force. Not everyone was permitted to know everything surrounding the Morrígan’s staff. That Gael kept pushing to know made Patrick want to deny him even the most mundane detail.

  “Thank you for the update,” Nadine said as she stood.

  “The WSA won�
��t like being lied to. I hope this mission is worth the fallout,” Gael said.

  Considering the only option was the world getting turned into a hell, Patrick thought the exchange was worth it even if politicians and the intelligence communities never would.

  Gael got to his feet and shook their hands. He didn’t offer to show them out. “Don’t forget that we’re all in this together.”

  “Some more than others,” Patrick replied before heading for the doorway that led back to the Reception Room.

  Nadine followed a few seconds later, and neither of them spoke until they were back in the car and driving away from Winfield House.

  “One of these days you’ll need to remember not everyone is the enemy,” Nadine said when they were stopped at a red light on their way to the WSA headquarters.

  “I have scars that prove practically everyone is,” Patrick retorted, watching as a handful of people crossed the road ahead of them in the crosswalk.

  “You have a reputation. It’s not always good.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Sometimes you need to if only so we get what we want. Grease the wheels. You know how this game is played.”

  Patrick grimaced, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “I play it with gods. Humans are different.”

  Nadine slanted him a look. “Easier to manipulate?”

  “No.”

  When it came down to it, humans were their own worst enemies and the monsters in the shadows no one ever saw until it was too late. For Patrick, gods were straightforward in their enmity and machinations and eternal grievances. Immortals never cared about mortal politics, only their own. Humanity lived to tear each other down, bury the bones, and rewrite history to suit their own needs.

  “Harder to survive,” Patrick finally said, thinking of Ethan and Hannah, and the glass-sharp connection in his soul that tied him to his twin.

  For the first time in months, he let himself think about the niece or nephew Hannah was carrying, the quiet horror of that nightmare washing over him.

  They were thirty years old and Hannah had spent twenty-two of them as a prisoner beneath Ethan’s cruel desires. Chicago had been many things, but above all, it had been a further degradation of Hannah’s lack of agency and the right to her own body and soul. Ethan had stolen everything from her, but the fertility rite had added a new layer of horrific fuckery to his actions.