“Your point?” Finley growled, rankled by Jono’s words.
Jono would’ve pitied him if he cared enough to—but he didn’t. “The other god pack in New York sent hunters against mine earlier this year.”
“Not our problem.”
“The hunters belong to the Krossed Knights, and you know hunters willingly carry demons in their souls.” Jono looked down at where Cressida lay on the ground, glaring up at him. “Just like Cressida here.”
Cressida rasped out a laugh. “Do I smell like I have a demon in my soul?”
“You called him Andras last night, and cried for it like you were dying when we tore the bastard out of you.”
The rage spilling off Cressida was matched only by the bleak grief that filled her scent, making Jono’s nose twitch. Finley’s gaze snapped to Cressida, who wouldn’t look at him, all her attention reserved for Jono.
“I don’t—” she began.
Órlaith twisted her fingers in a sharp motion. Cressida’s mouth snapped shut, neck arching from the pull of magic. “You will not lie, wolf. Speak your truth, or I will pull it from your mind.”
Finley’s gaze flickered back to Jono. “Just wanted a friendly chat, yeah? I don’t call this friendly.”
“The Summer Lady agreed to accompany us as a favor,” Jono said.
“To force lies out of Cressida’s mouth?”
Órlaith straightened her fingers, and her magic left Cressida’s body. Cressida panted for air, chest rising and falling beneath Órlaith’s boot. Jono caught Sage’s eye and nodded at her. Sage wandered away to pace around the challenge ring.
“Last night we were at Smithfield Market for reasons that don’t concern you. Cressida and some of your pack were there, acting as security for fae of the Unseelie Court,” Sage said calmly. “If you want corroborated truth, we’ll give it to you.”
She singled out seven people in the gathered pack, finding them by scent even though she didn’t know their names. Finley tracked her movements when he could, meeting her gaze when Sage finally returned to Jono’s side.
“Those members of your pack were with Cressida last night. Do you want to hear what they have to say?” Jono asked.
Finley’s jaw worked. “My pack doesn’t obey you.”
“They don’t seem to obey you much either, mate.”
Finley charged forward at the insult, only to be brought up short by the fireball Wade belched in his direction. The heat of dragon fire singed Finley’s clothes, forcing the other man back. Wade coughed beneath everyone’s wide-eyed stares, smoke curling out of his nose. He patted his stomach with a scaly red hand, eyes metallic gold with slit-black pupils in a face whose features weren’t quite human.
“’Scuse you,” Wade said. “Jono told me I couldn’t eat any of you, but the chip butty wasn’t enough and I’m starting to get hungry again.”
He’d stopped hiding his true aura; Jono could sense the change emanating from Wade without even looking. Wade could and did pass as human, hiding his aura beneath shields General Reed had taught him to build. Jono always forgot how dangerous Wade could come off, because dragons were rare, no matter what shape they took. Despite Wade’s lean teenage body, he came across as an apex predator to Jono’s hindbrain right then.
Finley couldn’t miss that. No one in the London god pack could miss it.
Jono focused his attention on Cressida and the prideful hate in her eyes, remembering how willing she’d been to let a demon own her soul.
“You’re a hunter, aren’t you?” Jono asked.
Cressida’s lips curled into a mocking smile before she laughed, fighting for breath against Órlaith’s weight pinning her down.
“Come closer and find out, you pissant monster,” she snarled. “I’ll cut you down like all the other animals over the years who were too worthless to live.”
She must have known there was no way out of this—not with Órlaith forcing her to stay still while Jono used words to strip away what hid the real her. Hate was a festering thing, a poison most people never realized was there even as it seeped into their lives. But the people who were targets of that hate knew how to recognize it, and Jono had spent months hunting and being hunted in New York City by people who would only ever see him as a monster.
He couldn’t imagine a Krossed Knight would willingly infect themselves with the werevirus, but it seemed whatever hunter group Cressida belonged to had found her agreeable.
The demon had as well.
“Cressida,” Finley ground out, staring at her as if he didn’t know her and the rot she’d let seep into the London god pack underneath his nose.
She turned her head to look at Finley, bared her teeth, and laughed in his face. “I had plans, you know. To bury your bones where you buried your love and piss on them.”
If Órlaith hadn’t been standing in the way, Jono thought Finley would’ve ripped out Cressida’s organs one by one.
He still might, after they left.
“Is this what your kind hopes to do in New York?” Jono asked.
Cressida bared her teeth at him. “London needs to be cleansed of the monsters that think they belong here. That’s what Andras promised me. Promised us. It won’t be the only city we’ll cleanse.”
Jono clenched his teeth and shook his head. The damage Cressida had caused was more than enough to wound the London god pack. The cracks she’d forced open between its members and the packs beneath them wouldn’t be fixed with her death.
Some of that toxicity had been there back when Jono had lived here, an outsider looking in, but this was far worse. He was still that outsider, because despite the crisis the London god pack was hurtling toward, it wasn’t his problem. It couldn’t be his problem.
This wasn’t his pack, had never been his pack, and never would be. Its damage wasn’t his responsibility to fix.
London wasn’t his to save.
“The cuffs will keep her from shifting. Do with her what you like,” Jono said into the tense silence that had fallen over the challenge ring.
Órlaith removed her foot from Cressida’s chest at his words, stepping back. Cressida continued to lie there, panting for breath and staring up at the sky, lips peeled back from her teeth in a rictus of a smile.
Cressida would die today. How long it took was anyone’s guess. Jono knew she would face what was coming with the righteous belief of her people that they were better than those who weren’t like them, no matter the werevirus running through her veins.
Jono led the way back to the car, keeping his hearing dialed down low. It didn’t stop him from hearing Cressida’s first painful cry that trailed off into a breathless laugh.
Sometimes the worst monsters were the human ones.
Jono stepped inside Lucien’s Hyde Park flat in time to see Spencer stare mournfully at a mug he had tipped upside down.
“Coffee, no,” Spencer whined. “Why are you empty?”
“You look better,” Sage said.
“I’d feel better with more coffee.”
They’d dropped Órlaith off at the fae embassy before returning here rather than the hotel. Jono doubted the London god pack was trying to watch their every move anymore, but he couldn’t be sure about the WSA. He didn’t smell Patrick or Nadine in the flat, which meant they were still handling the crisis with their foreign counterparts. Jono hadn’t received a text or call from Patrick as of yet.
They’d need to feed Wade soon, if his grumblings on the drive back to London had been anything to go by. Supper was two hours away, but Jono didn’t think Wade would last.
“Where’s Lucien?” Jono asked.
Spencer set the mug down and hiked the blanket higher over his shoulders. Fatima jumped onto the sofa and headbutted her way onto his lap. Spencer pet her absentmindedly.
“I don’t know. Sleeping? It’s still daylight out. I woke up an hour ago and had to figure out the coffee machine on my own. It was like something NASA invented as a joke for us poor people who don’t understand s
cience while half-asleep.”
“Should’ve made tea.”
“If I wanted to drink leaves and flowers, I’d have Fatima fetch me some from the park across the street.” Spencer yawned widely, then winced. “Think there’s any Advil around here?”
Victoria Alvarez would’ve come in handy right about then. The witch, who was a nurse allied with their god pack, had a deft hand for potions. As it was, Lucien didn’t keep potions around, and Spencer’s best course of action when they’d arrived last night had been sleep.
Jono eyed the mage. The tightness in Spencer’s jaw and around his eyes spoke of a headache he hadn’t slept off. Jono knew the signs of when a mage had overextended themselves and wished he could help the other man out.
“I doubt Lucien has any paracetamol. He doesn’t seem the sort to need it,” Jono said.
Spencer leaned back on the sofa and propped his socked foot up on the coffee table. “I’ll live. How’d returning the prisoner go?”
“They were gutting her as we left,” Sage said in the same tone someone would use to say pass the butter at a meal.
“Sounds cathartic.”
Jono watched Wade slink out of the living room through the door that led to the kitchen. He wished Wade luck finding anything edible in a master vampire’s home.
“Care to chat about that demon?” Jono asked.
Spencer ran a hand over Fatima’s back, gaze shuttered. “We’ll wait for Patrick and Nadine to get back.”
They’d needed answers last night after the auction, but Spencer hadn’t been up for the sort of conversation they all needed to have. It seemed they would still have to wait.
Lucien’s Night Court slept the day away, their human servants acting as guards. Naheed popped in to check on Jono and the others only once, a silent figure in the doorway before slipping away again.
Wade was threatening to chew a hole in the wall by the time Patrick and Nadine made it back to Lucien’s flat. Jono smelled the takeaway before he saw the pair, unable to sniff them out due to shields.
Carmen and Lucien were both awake by then, even if the rest of his Night Court were still sleeping. The sun hadn’t set yet, so the rest wouldn’t be up for the conversation everyone was about to have.
“Do I smell Chinese food?” Wade said loudly, jackknifing to a sitting position on the floor.
“You’re using a plate and fork, not your fingers,” Jono warned as the front door opened.
“I’ll pour an entire box in my mouth, I don’t care. I’m hungry.”
“Didn’t you feed him?” Patrick asked as he and Nadine came inside.
“Twice. Once each way there and back to Farningham,” Jono said. “He ate chip butties each time.”
“Should’ve packed a trunkful of snacks.”
Patrick looked tired and irritable, weighed down by the six bags of bulging takeaway he carried. Nadine carried just as many because it took a lot of food to feed their group. The pair headed toward the kitchen, and Jono got up to follow them. Wade was sticking his nose into the bags by the time Jono made it to the kitchen, dancing from one foot to the other in his excitement to eat.
“Aw yeah, double order of shrimp fried rice,” Wade said happily.
“You’re sharing,” Sage said.
Wade clutched a box to his chest and gave her a scandalized look. “But there’s two! Which means one is all mine.”
Patrick reached over to pry the box out of his hands. “Sharing means you don’t eat all the food by yourself.”
Wade shoved a spring roll into his mouth and chewed sulkily.
“If you’ve led the British government to my home, I’ll murder you right here,” Lucien said as he draped himself over Carmen’s back, staring at Patrick with half-lidded eyes and an expression on his face that wasn’t welcoming at all.
“The fuck you will,” Jono told him.
Lucien sneered at his protest, but Nadine headed off a fight with a steely eyed glare directed at the both of them. “We made sure the WSA had no names for our CIs and that we lost whatever tail they set on us after we left their headquarters.”
“How did it go?” Sage asked.
Patrick popped open a box full of pot stickers and stabbed one the way he’d stab the enemy. “Not good.”
“We’ve got orders to be out of the country by tomorrow evening,” Nadine said.
“What about the Morrígan’s staff?” Jono asked.
“CCTV captured Ilya Nazarov leaving London via St. Pancras International early this morning. The only luggage he had on him was a case long enough to hold the staff,” Patrick said flatly.
“How did he make it through Customs?”
“Must’ve used magic to scramble the computers in the controlled areas, but CCTV got partials of his face on a couple of feeds after the fact. The system red flagged him too late for us to do anything about it. He took the Eurostar south. Our French counterparts checked the train at Calais, but he wasn’t on board.”
“Do you still think he’s going to Paris?”
Patrick passed the box of pot stickers to Wade, who promptly dumped what was left on his plate that was already piled high with Chinese food. “It’s the most likely scenario. The Orthodox Church of the Dead has a strong foothold in that city. Intelligence indicates that’s where Ilya operates out of.”
“Did you tell the WSA about where you think Ilya is going?” Sage asked.
“No. It’s a fucking diplomatic mess right now, which is why Nadine and I were told to leave the country. I’ll leave it to them to put two and two together.”
“Do they expect you to go back to the United States?”
Nadine scooped up some sesame chicken and dumped it over her fried rice. “The WSA knows I work out of Paris. It won’t seem out of the ordinary if Patrick comes with me. They don’t have jurisdiction in France.”
“What about Sage and Wade? Does the WSA know about them from CCTV?” Jono asked.
Nadine shook her head. “I made sure all security cameras were scrambled when we went in and out of Smithfield Market.”
“Could’ve shown up elsewhere.”
“Which is why we all need to get out of England.” Patrick pointed his fork at Lucien. “Goes double for you.”
“My bargain with your government was restricted to London. It said nothing about Paris,” Lucien said flatly.
“You bargained to retrieve the staff for us, so you’re going to Paris. Call up your private jet or whatever, but you’re going.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“We already paid you.”
“I realize we have a staff problem and a necromancer problem, but we also have a demon problem. Let’s not forget that,” Spencer said as he half-heartedly tried to scrape what remained of the Sichuan chicken onto his plate. “If hunters and demons end up working with the Dominion Sect, we’re all fucked.”
Patrick grimaced. “We’re already fucked.”
“Andras.” Jono stole the fried rice box out of Wade’s hand, ignoring the teen’s squawk of protest. “Who was that demon?”
“A Great Marquis of Hell.” Spencer slumped against the kitchen island, still looking like he could’ve slept another twelve hours. “I hate trying to separate the upper echelons of demons from their hosts. Gives me such a fucking migraine.”
Patrick paused with a forkful of rice halfway to his mouth. “The demon was that high up?”
“High enough for my head to feel like it wanted to fall off like the headless fae we fought.”
“Does that mean we’re going to have to deal with angels at some point?”
Spencer winced. “For the sake of my head and soul, let’s hope not.”
“Demons have a rigid hierarchy?” Jono asked.
Patrick finished the motion of getting the fork to his mouth, talking after he chewed. “They’re part of some of the widest-spread religions. There’s some truth in the stories and myths about demons, the same way there’s truth about gods.”
“Demons wo
rked with Ethan during the Thirty-Day War. What makes you think he won’t call on them again?” Lucien asked derisively.
Jono didn’t like the bleakness that settled on Patrick’s, Nadine’s, and Spencer’s faces.
Spencer rubbed at his eyes, his food momentarily forgotten. “The Dominion Sect called forth lesser demons during that war.”
“Didn’t think soultakers rated as lesser,” Jono said.
“There were exceptions. But if Ethan strikes a bargain with Andras or another higher-ranked demon, it’ll be bad.”
“Worse than the Thirty-Day War?”
“Ethan summoned demons back then, he didn’t bargain with them. He already has some alliances with different gods of hell. I’m guessing he hasn’t touched their godheads because he needs their help against the gods of the heavens. If he makes a deal with demons from hell, what happened in Cairo will look like a weekend party.” Spencer looked over at Patrick. “Am I right?”
Patrick nodded jerkily but didn’t say a word.
“Throw in the Morrígan’s staff and no one will be able to escape the hell Ethan wants to make of Earth,” Nadine said morosely.
Jono swallowed hard. “So what now?”
“Rossiter was working with Cressida, but I don’t think either were in contact with Ilya or the Dominion Sect. Rossiter wasn’t favoring any particular buyer over the other until the staff came up for bid,” Patrick said.
“Then all hell broke loose,” Wade snickered.
Sage rolled her eyes. “You’re not funny.”
Wade stuck his tongue out at her before shoveling another forkful of chow mein into his mouth.
Patrick pinched his nose, and Jono wanted to reach across the kitchen island to pull his hand away. “We need to stop Ilya from using the staff or handing it off to the god he worships. I don’t know if Ethan has a bargain with Peklabog, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he does. If he doesn’t, he’s going to try to make one. Which is why we’re all going to Paris.”
On the Wings of War (Soulbound Book 5) Page 22
