On The Wings Of War: Soulbound V

by Turner, Hailey

  Sage led them through the hotel to the stately red double door etched in gold at the edges that led to the Beaufort Bar. The hotel hostess situated in the nearby alcove was fighting through nerves and hiding it well enough that she didn’t look like she was about to have a panic attack. Patrick figured the sooner the god pack werewolf standing between her and the entrance left, the happier she’d be.

  Patrick eyed the familiar-looking man waiting for them outside the bar—the same man who’d followed him and Nadine in St. James’s Park earlier that afternoon. This time Patrick could make out the wolf-bright blue eyes that were eerily similar to Jono’s. Up close, he was handsome and dressed like he knew it, but his taste in designer clothes was overkill.

  Jono’s stride hitched slightly, and it was enough of a tell for Patrick to look at him sharply. The surprise on his face told Patrick he knew the guy. The way the blond guy raked his gaze up and down Jono’s body hungrily made Patrick want to stab him.

  “Bryson,” Jono said slowly.

  Bryson smiled at Jono, ignoring the rest of them. “Mate. It’s been bloody forever.”

  “You know why.”

  Bryson’s oil-slick smile never left his face. “I would’ve rung you, but my alphas laid down the law, yeah? You know how it is.”

  Jono said nothing to that. Sage neatly stepped between him and Bryson, forcing Bryson to look at her. “We’re here to meet your alphas.”

  Bryson’s wolf-bright, blue-eyed gaze flicked to her then back to Jono. “Who’s the bird?”

  “Our dire,” Patrick answered flatly, throttling his anger and glad his shields were locked down tight so Bryson wouldn’t smell it. “Sage Beacot. Address her by her name or title, or don’t fucking talk to her at all, got it?”

  Bryson finally looked at him, some of the easiness in his gaze disappearing, replaced with a cold annoyance Patrick didn’t give one goddamn fuck about. “I’d say humans aren’t allowed tonight, but you aren’t that human, are you?”

  “Pat?” Jono asked, not looking at him.

  “Dickface here tried to tail me today. He wasn’t very good at it,” Patrick said.

  “You need to learn some fucking manners,” Bryson snarled.

  Patrick smiled at him, baring his teeth. “Take us to your alphas. Now.”

  Bryson glared at Patrick before looking over at Jono. “Bit of a pissant, that one. You let him order you about like this, Jono?”

  “Patrick is my god pack’s co-leader. We lead together,” Jono stated flatly. “Show us to your alphas, Bryson. That’s why we’re here.”

  Bryson arched an eyebrow at him. “You can still call me Bry, you know that, right?”

  It was Jono’s turn to smile, and his teeth were sharper than Patrick’s ever could be. “Your alphas. Now.”

  Whatever sort of camaraderie Bryson hoped to start up again with Jono, Patrick was pleased to see it die a withering death outside the Beaufort Bar.

  “You know, I did miss you when you left,” Bryson said, turning toward the door.

  Patrick had so many questions for Jono right about then, and maybe he would’ve asked them if he wasn’t fantasizing about stabbing Bryson in the back. He’d never thought of himself as the jealous type, but apparently he was finding new depths about himself within the pack.

  “Friend of yours?” Patrick asked, going for curious and coming off murderous.

  “We’ll chat later,” Jono said, not bothering to keep his voice low.

  “Damn right we will.”

  They went from bright lights to the low lighting inside the jet-black and gold bar. A single chandelier hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, while sconces and lamps lined the wood-paneled walls broken up in intervals by square marble pillars. Black tables and chairs were situated so there was plenty of room between them to ensure a cozy, almost private space. A pair of low couches turned back-to-back between two tables offered up a different kind of seat for guests to claim.

  The bar itself was set against the wall to the right on a low antique stage. Light flowed through a frosted base, and only a few high seats were spaced in front so as to not overcrowd the bar. Dozens of liquor bottles sat on glass shelves and inside recessed spaces, the light shining down and from behind making everything glitter like it was crystal. A single bartender was working on some drinks for a pair of glamorously dressed women.

  Three recessed booths on the side wall were painted a deep gold, the black couches in front embroidered with gold stitching as well. Two of the booths were empty. The far left one in the corner was full, as were the tables nearest it. The people there were all looking back at them, their wolf-bright blue eyes glittering in the dim bar light.

  Recognition punched through Patrick’s magic behind his shields—werecreatures, but something else. Something malevolent and insidious, a warning he only ever experienced when faced with demons. Patrick swallowed, tasting a hint of sulfur in the very back of his throat. Either the London god pack here tonight knew about the demon in their midst and they didn’t care—or they were unaware, which meant the demon was powerful.

  Shit.

  Wade made a surprised noise behind him. Patrick wrenched his attention away from the London god pack when Wade grabbed his arm, looking into the teenager’s wide brown eyes, not seeing any hint of gold.

  “Patrick—”

  Patrick shook his head sharply, cutting Wade off. Wade snapped his mouth shut, chewing on his bottom lip as he stared at Patrick. He let Patrick go and stayed close, knowing better than to speak about pack things in public, especially in front of the enemy. Wade was practically vibrating from tension though, and Patrick wanted badly to calm him down, but he didn’t have the time.

  Bryson led them to the corner table, and Patrick took a quick head count, coming up with twelve, including Jono’s terrible past taste in men. All but one of the seats were taken at a table, and no one seemed inclined to offer them any. Bryson claimed that seat, trying to look unconcerned, but the stiff way he held himself proved it was a lie.

  The people who mattered for these negotiations sat on the couch in the recessed golden space, and Patrick’s gaze went immediately to the woman who carried a hint of the hells to his magic.

  Cressida Moore was a slim woman with a riot of blonde curls that fell to her shoulders and framed a delicately featured face. Her impossibly wolf-bright blue eyes dominated her face, ringed by false eyelashes, thick eyeliner, and eyeshadow that matched the silky rose-gold tank top she wore.

  Whatever skin she wore, what lived in her soul wasn’t human. Patrick’s magic was sounding a warning that lifted the hair on the back of his neck, and he wanted desperately to get his pack out of there. He’d faced hunters who carried demons in their souls many times before, but none of them had ever made him feel like running away was the only option. All Patrick could think of was Shakespeare’s apt warning as they came to a stop near the group.

  Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

  The man sitting beside Cressida on the couch was only a werecreature. Taller than her even while sitting down, his brown hair was slicked back, face clean-shaven, and he dressed about ten years younger than he looked.

  “You’ve some bollocks on you to come crawling back to London, Jonothon,” Finley Harris said. His accent was a more refined version of Jono’s, but still a far cry from upper class speech.

  “Do you see me crawling?” Jono said coolly.

  Finley reached for his drink, the cut crystal glass filled with a deep amber liquid. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “I’m here as the alpha of the New York City god pack. Under pack law, you’re obligated to negotiate with me as equals.”

  Finley threw back his head and laughed, causing a wave of chuckles to echo in the pack members around him. “Bollocks. You’ve never been my equal.”

  “You’re right,” Patrick said. “He’s always been better than you.”

  Finley’s laughter cut off, and he set his glass back on the table wit
h a heavy smack. “What the fuck do you think you know about pack when you aren’t part of our community?”

  “I’m the co-leader of ours, so let’s go with everything that matters.”

  “How adorable,” Cressida drawled, tapping one manicured nail against the edge of her cocktail glass. “The human thinks he’s one of us.”

  More laughter made Patrick want to clench his hands into fists, but he didn’t give in to the urge. Physical tells were as much a giveaway as scent in a situation like this, and he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were pissing him off.

  Cressida leaned forward, the tank top she wore shifting to show off more of her ample cleavage. She smiled, teeth sharp in her mouth. “I hear you have magic, which means you can never be part of our community, much less pack.”

  “Do I smell like I have magic?” Patrick asked.

  “Bryson saw you at the WSA today. You were walking with a witch.”

  Bryson’s nose was way off if he thought Nadine was a witch. “Not everyone who works at a place like that is a magic user.”

  “You don’t work there at all.”

  Patrick shrugged, never taking his eyes off her. “I thought that was obvious?”

  “I called your dire on behalf of my alphas for a parley over pass-through rights. You’re obligated under pack law to come to the table and speak. That holds true no matter what continent you stand on,” Sage said.

  “That holds true for a real pack, which you aren’t,” Finley said.

  “The packs under our protection in New York City say otherwise, as does the Chicago god pack and the San Francisco god pack. The Night Courts and the fae in New York acknowledge our standing. That’s more than enough validation by anyone’s count,” Jono stated flatly. “More than the support I hear you’ve lost lately, yeah?”

  Finley scowled at them, unable to deny that fact. Sage’s research had come up with a lot of London gossip concerning the werecreature community here. Marek had trawled PreterWorld posts for hints of discord that Sage had run with by doing a deep dive into media articles. What they’d uncovered didn’t paint a pretty picture—and the probable cause of the mess here in London was staring right at Patrick with the eyes of a god pack alpha werecreature and the soul of a demon.

  “My understanding is you fled our country because you couldn’t be arsed to listen to any of the alphas heading up the packs in London,” Cressida said.

  “There was only one pack I should’ve belonged to. Neither Jessamine nor Finley allowed me to join the London god pack. That’s not on me, but on them.”

  “That wasn’t my decision since I wasn’t here at the time, but I understand their order was a death sentence for you if you returned. I’m absolutely willing to adhere to my predecessor’s judgment.”

  Patrick tilted his head to the side, falling into that focused frame of mind as he readied himself for a fight. Werecreatures shifted in their seats, tension thrumming through the group, but Sage cut everyone off at the metaphorical knees before anyone could start flipping tables.

  “Then we’ll settle this disagreement in the challenge ring. You’ll grant us pass-through rights and pardon Jono when we win,” Sage said evenly.

  “When you lose, we take your lives, is that it, love?” Finley sneered.

  Sage stared him down, refusing to show throat. “You’re welcome to try.”

  A tall, lanky black man stretched out his legs and leaned an elbow on the table. “Won’t need to try very hard for that.”

  Sage casually turned around, putting her back to the group in a show of disdain that wasn’t taken well by any of the London god pack. Patrick kept his eyes on everyone he considered the enemy while Jono and Sage handled pack politics.

  “Dire to dire?” Sage asked Jono.

  Patrick would’ve rather it be alpha to alpha—with him fighting, not Jono. Sage was their expert on pack law though, and this was the confrontation she’d thought would be the best chance to get what they needed—freedom to move about London without being hassled or attacked.

  Jono nodded. “Dire to dire.”

  “As you will it.”

  The words sounded way too formal to be anything but tradition handed down through the years. More shifting of bodies on chairs had Patrick moving his right hand closer to his dagger. Cressida’s gaze followed the motion of his hand, and he watched her eyes narrow fractionally. Her expression didn’t change, neither did the way she held herself, but when she looked at Patrick again, the mockery from before was gone.

  “Our challenge ring is outside London. You’ll meet us there in an hour and a half,” Cressida said.

  “Bryson will escort you to our territory,” Finley said.

  “He rides in his own car,” Patrick said.

  “That’s not how things are done here in London. You get an escort. This isn’t your city.”

  “And he’s riding in his own fucking car. If he tries to ride with us, I’ll leave a body behind.”

  Someone laughed, and Finley grinned like he thought Patrick was amusing. Which was fine by Patrick. He didn’t care if the London god pack underestimated him—their arrogance only meant they’d never see him coming when it truly mattered.

  He preferred those odds over the ones where all his secrets were laid bare.

  Jono brushed the back of his hand against Patrick’s arm in a subtle show of support. Patrick scraped his fingernails against the leather sheath of his dagger and tried not to think about the trouble he’d be in if he committed murder on foreign soil.

  “We’ll see you in Farningham,” Jono said.

  Sage headed for the exit, and Wade hurried after her. Patrick didn’t take his eyes off the table of werecreatures, not even when Bryson stood. “I’ll escort you lot.”

  “Patrick?” Jono said.

  “Go. I’ve got your six,” Patrick said.

  He wanted himself and his magic between everyone at the table and his pack. For once, Jono didn’t argue. Bryson smirked as he moved to follow Jono, but Patrick put himself right in the other man’s way.

  Patrick glared at him. “Back the fuck off.”

  “And what are you going to do if I don’t?” Bryson asked, reaching for him.

  Warmth pressed against Patrick’s back, the familiar scent of Jono’s cologne washing over him as Jono reached around him to grab Bryson’s wrist.

  “He’d kill you,” Jono said in a low, dangerous voice from behind Patrick. “And I’ll be the one listening to him whinge about the loads of paperwork he’ll have to fill out to justify your murder. So don’t fucking touch him, or I’ll go for your throat myself.”

  “I’ll bitch about paperwork if I want to,” Patrick muttered.

  “I know you will.”

  Bryson wrenched his wrist out of Jono’s grip, staring at him with an unreadable look in his matching eyes. “So it’s like that between the two of you?”

  “What Patrick and I are isn’t your business. You and I aren’t pack, Bryson. We never were.”

  “We were mates.”

  “Yeah. Don’t make me regret that.”

  Jono tugged on Patrick’s shoulder, and he allowed himself to be turned around. He let Jono get ahead of him, all his formidable attention focused on the threat behind them he couldn’t see. But instincts honed by war would ensure Patrick kept his pack safe. He spared a glance over his shoulder only once, seeing Bryson staring at them before the other man finally started to follow.

  “If you kill him and make a mess of the hotel carpet, Sage will never forgive us for getting her banned from the Savoy,” Jono warned without turning around.

  “No promises,” Patrick said as they left the Beaufort Bar.

  9

  “We have a problem,” Patrick said.

  London was behind them, the A2 bracketed by the smaller towns making up Greater London. Patrick drummed his fingers against his thigh, staring straight ahead at the taillights stretched down the length of the highway. The silence ward lining the fra
me of the rental car was a bubble of quiet surrounding them.

  “We have many. You need to be more specific,” Sage said from the back seat.

  “One of their alphas is a demon. Is that specific enough? Because I don’t know what kind, but it smelled gross,” Wade said.

  Jono jerked the steering wheel a little before he got himself under control. “What?”

  Patrick nodded stiffly. “There’s a demon in Cressida’s soul. My magic picked up traces of its presence.”

  Wade leaned forward between their seats. “She smelled like rotten eggs. Like the hunters in New York.”

  “I didn’t smell anything,” Jono said.

  “Neither did I,” Sage added.

  Patrick shrugged. “Then that means it’s either a powerful demon riding Cressida’s soul, or she is a demon.”

  “Hunter?”

  Jono shook his head. “She’s a werecreature. I smelled that.”

  “That doesn’t preclude her from being a hunter.”

  “They hate our kind.”

  “We’ll argue about it later,” Patrick interrupted. “Jono, do you know this Devin guy?”

  Jono frowned. “He wasn’t dire when I lived in London, but he was god pack. Didn’t ever run with him. He was more interested in climbing the ranks, and hanging out with me wasn’t going to help him reach his goals. He never struck me as dire material though.”

  “Do you know what his fighting habits were like at least? Dirty and underhanded, or dirty and underhanded on steroids?”

  Sage snorted. “When you’re a dire, you fight to win, no matter what.”

  “Oh, good. So you should be able to take him no problem since you’re a lawyer.”

  Sage kicked the back of his seat. “Hey now.”

  “He’s a werewolf, Sage,” Jono said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Not as big as me, but still fast.”

  “No one is as big as you,” Patrick said, thinking of more than just Jono’s wolf form.

  Wade made a gagging sound from the back seat. “Gross.”