A Ferry of Bones & Gold (Soulbound Book 1), page 26
“Bit wet out,” Jono said. He grabbed Patrick’s hand in his and started for the mouth of the alleyway. “I’ll show you where Marek parked.”
None of them wanted to be out in this weather, so everyone made a run for their respective vehicles. Patrick followed Jono’s lead, the two of them racing down the sidewalk for half a block until they reached Marek’s car.
“I’m driving,” Patrick said.
“You know how to drive manual?” Jono asked as he tossed Patrick the small set of keys.
“If I didn’t, you’d be driving. I don’t think Marek would appreciate me stripping the gears.”
“Hope he doesn’t whinge about the water damage to his seats.”
“He’s rich. He can afford the fix.”
They got inside the relative dryness of the vehicle. Patrick started the engine and the Maserati rumbled to life. He waited just long enough for Jono to buckle up before pulling into the street.
The Greek coins in his pocket clinked together every time Patrick pressed down on the clutch, navigating through saturated Manhattan streets. The window wipers were going at full speed, but the rain was coming down so hard it was still difficult to see anything. Patrick had to concentrate on the road as he followed the GPS map on his phone for the NY 9A North onramp.
Despite how late it was and the ferocity of the storm, there were still people out on the roads. Most of the vehicles seemed to be taxis or ride-share workers. Sane people knew not to be out on a night like this. He was merging onto the West Side Highway when Jono broke the silence between them.
“All the reports about Ethan’s children said they’d gone missing and were presumed dead like his wife.”
Patrick gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Unfortunately, he couldn’t throw himself out of a moving vehicle to escape it.
“Reports lie,” Patrick said.
“I can see that.” Jono glanced at him. “The immortals say you owe them a soul debt. Is Ethan why?”
Patrick thought of the lies he’d lived over the years, the background Setsuna had never let him forget since he was eight years old.
“Setsuna changed my last name in a closed federal court hearing and sealed the files when I was a kid. She gave me a new identity and took me on as her ward because it was the only way to keep me safe back then. The public thinks I’m dead. The files show me alive.”
Jono’s voice was quiet, a murmur barely heard over the rain pounding on the car roof. “And your twin sister?”
Patrick reflexively pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal, holding on tight to the steering wheel and the gear shift. “What do you think?”
The police had only found one body in his family’s home in Salem—his mother’s. Hannah Greene, his twin sister, had disappeared, a missing person presumed dead and relegated to a cold case that still haunted the detectives who’d covered the crime. At the time, the sacrificial murder of a loving mother and the assumed deaths of her twin eight-year-old children had rocked Salem’s magical community to its core.
Ethan, the prime murder suspect, had gone on the run and disappeared, only to show up years later on grainy CCTV footage in Europe, making a new life as a mercenary. Over the years, every shred of evidence that proved Ethan was alive had never confirmed the same fate for Hannah.
As for Patrick?
The sins of the father were owed by the son in the eyes of the immortals.
“These gods,” Jono said quietly. “They aren’t as powerful as they used to be.”
“They’re still powerful enough. People still worship them. Why do you think Hera formed that coven of hers?” Patrick switched lanes to get out from behind the added spray of water coming from a truck’s tires. “Gods will always have power we mortals never will. It’s why Ethan does what he does.”
Greed was his father’s defining feature and always would be.
Headlights and taillights refracted through the rain. Jono didn’t ask any more questions, but he did reach over and settle his hand over Patrick’s on the gear shift. Patrick let out a long, slow, deep breath at the touch, though the tension in his shoulders only got worse.
He drove them north, wishing for a cigarette or a goddamn drink to settle his mind. It took close to thirty minutes even without a lot of traffic on the road to reach Exit 17, fighting the wind for the entire drive. Patrick veered right, gliding onto Riverside Drive, most of Manhattan’s bridges behind them. He took a left on Seaman Avenue, driving between red-bricked buildings on either side of the street.
Patrick followed the route on the GPS all the way to where Seaman Avenue intersected with West 218th Street. He turned left and managed to drive only one block before coming to a stop. The car’s headlights illuminated the large boulders placed between short metal pillars to keep cars out of the park.
“Be right back,” Jono said.
He got out of the car and jogged toward the closest pair of boulders through the rain. Patrick watched through the downpour as Jono easily picked up each boulder and tossed them to the side, clearing the way.
“Okay, that was hot,” Patrick said, knowing Jono could probably hear him.
Jono returned to the car and raised an eyebrow at Patrick. “Hefting rocks about turns you on?”
Patrick took his foot off the brake and pressed down on the gas and clutch, shifting gears. “You know exactly what turned me on about that, and it wasn’t the rocks. Don’t fish for compliments.”
He drove them onto a bumpy road, the asphalt broken and pitted in places. They ended up at a roundabout situated on a wedge of land jutting into the choppy water. Inwood Hill Park sat on the northernmost tip of Manhattan, a little spot of green with eddies of magic flowing beneath its surface. Ley lines snaked beneath it in metaphysical rivers of power that fed through to the nexus behind them. The park was dark, empty of people, the reactionary storm having driven everyone away.
Patrick parked against the curve of the roundabout. Off to the side was an empty baseball field, the tall stadium-style lights dark against the stormy sky. Rain pounded against the car roof and streamed down the windshield in a waterfall that blurred out the world. Patrick knew the reactionary storm would only grow worse as the hours ticked down. He didn’t want to think about the damage the five boroughs would sustain when hit by something resembling a strong tropical storm or a low-category hurricane that wouldn’t move on.
He took the key out of the ignition and opened the car door. “Let’s go.”
Jono followed him into the storm once more, the two of them trudging across muddy grass that sucked at their feet. They walked parallel to the baseball field, heading for the line of trees at land’s end; the park one last, crushing bit of nature that sprouted defiantly in one of the world’s most human of cities.
Patrick could see lights from the buildings across the choppy water shining through the trees. Patrick ducked his head against the wind shrieking over the park, leaning into it as he walked. His leather jacket kept his upper body mostly dry due to the charms laid onto it, but rain still slipped between the collar and his neck.
They made it to the pathway circling the jut of land before passing through the copse of trees. Jono had to duck a little under some of the branches until they cleared the tree line and came upon the rocky shore. The low-lying water before them churned violently from the storm.
“This the spot?” Jono yelled over the sound of the wind.
“North enough,” Patrick yelled back.
The lightning-edged storm sparked blue and white in the cloud-heavy night sky, thunder a sound Patrick could feel in his bones. The earth itself seemed to vibrate from the sound. He slipped two of the four coins out of his front pocket and stared down at them. They glittered in the dark; tiny, rough-hewn circles of gold that burned with an amount of magic Patrick would have to be dead not to feel.
The coins weren’t from this world, but like the ruins in Greece that let their gods still be remembered, they were a pathway of sorts. A foothold. For Patrick, they would be nothing but a possibility for some breathing room.
Patrick drew his arm back and threw the coins into the water, putting all his strength into the motion. They spun through the air like tiny meteorites before crashing into the water below, sinking to muddy depths.
The water began to swirl around where the coins had sunk, drawing in like a whirlpool, its center a softly glowing twist of magic. They watched the light grow brighter before the whirlpool swallowed it up.
Something trembled from deep below. Patrick felt it, on the very edge of his awareness, something powerful settling into place. He hoped the formation of the barrier ward wouldn’t catch Ethan’s attention, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath.
Patrick would pray if he thought it would do them any good, but he’d long since discovered that prayers were nothing more than wasted breath, and begging never helped anyone.
Jono bent his head so he could speak directly in Patrick’s ear. “Will it work?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did it work in Cairo? At the end?”
“We didn’t do this in Cairo.”
Their defenses had been different, tied to what the military could offer, spearheaded by the Mage Corps and its foreign allied equivalents, and all their worn-out magic users. In the end, Patrick’s team had been the only group to reach ground zero of the sacrificial spell. He had been the only one able to cross it, and that only by the grace of gods and his own misbegotten blood ties.
Jono grabbed his hand, pulling Patrick away from the water’s edge and back onto the muddy firmament of the island. “C’mon, mate. We’re done here.”
They stumbled back under the trees in the dark, Jono leading the way with preternatural sure-footedness. With the rain coming down relentlessly, Patrick would have to wait until they were back in the car to text the others of their success so his phone didn’t become waterlogged.
He never got the chance.
Patrick felt the burn of recognition like a knife sliding between his ribs. He choked on a cry, stumbling sideways into Jono, who immediately caught him before he face-planted in the mud. Bitterness filled his mouth, filled his lungs. Patrick got his feet under him and his hand on his dagger right as a hulking beast slid out of the veil in front of them.
Three pairs of coal-red eyes glowed through the dark, the smell of sulfur thick in the air. The deep, rumbling growls that ripped through the air didn’t sound like they belonged to any animal on Earth.
“Stay behind me,” Jono snarled, moving to get in front.
Patrick ripped his dagger out of its sheath, magic crawling across the black blade, as he stepped to the side to get clear line of sight. “I don’t fucking think so. They’re after you.”
The beast roared, its voice crashing through the air louder than thunder. Its charge forward made the earth shake, and Patrick couldn’t get out of the way in time. Something solid and powerful clipped him in the side, violently jarring his entire body. He was thrown by the force of the hit, crashing to the ground hard enough to punch the air from his lungs.
“Patrick!”
He spit mud out of his mouth, hand still clenched around the hilt of his dagger, heavenly magic twisting around his fingers. “Jono! Run!”
Somehow, he knew Jono wouldn’t listen.
Hellfire sparked into existence, burning bright, cradled in a human hand. It dripped from fingers unaffected by its heat, pooling on the muddy ground before bursting outward in a long snaking line that encircled the area they were in. Even the fury of the storm couldn’t snuff it out.
In the light the hellfire cast, Patrick could finally see the shape of the creature before him—the snakelike tail whipping back and forth over its three heads. Thick legs that ended in monstrous claws supported a barrel-chested body that shouldn’t have been capable of the agility it had. Blackened teeth dripped thick saliva in three wide mouths.
Cerberus was a nightmare made real.
“Fuck,” Patrick said as he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain in his body. “Fuck.”
Cerberus’ three heads snapped at the air before it let out another howl. Patrick knew better than to take his eyes off the threat, but he wasn’t the target—Jono was. He looked away, catching sight of Jono and the rapid change the other man was going through.
Jono’s human body broke itself apart before reforming into a monstrous wolf, magic twisting through his DNA. Clothes ripped apart as his body expanded. Blood sprayed through the air, whipped away by the wind. Bones snapped, ripping through skin, as his limbs reshaped themselves in seconds. Muscles twisted and stretched into a new shape, fur sprouting in thick patches before flowing over newly formed skin.
New joints snapped his limbs into place, their position articulated differently from normal wolves to give Jono more strength to grip and rend. His spine popped and locked into place with a violent motion. His head was shaped like a wolf’s but with a heavier jaw and thicker skull, long fangs sliding free of his lips.
Jono was frightening in this shape, as most werecreatures were, a shade of the animal the werevirus drew inspiration from. But his eyes were still the same wolf-bright blue, the human intelligence in them tempered by a viciousness driven by animalistic ferocity.
Jono put himself between Cerberus and Patrick with a challenging snarl the thunder couldn’t drown out.
“Those coins weren’t yours to use. Hermes had no right to give them to you,” Hades said as the hellfire he commanded grew brighter.
Patrick’s ribs ached from the hit and the fall, but he never lost his grip on the dagger. He might not have his magic, but the blade he wielded was more than powerful enough to replace it.
“Hera sanctioned it since you betrayed your family again,” Patrick spat out. “What have you done with Zeus?”
“I’ll tell you if you will trade yourself for my brother. A life for a life, what do you say?” When Patrick didn’t answer, Hades snapped his fingers. “I didn’t think so.”
The hellfire rose higher around them, trapping them inside a circle of hellish heat. Patrick couldn’t tell if it was rain or sweat sliding down his neck beneath his leather jacket.
“Is Ethan still promising you Macaria’s life? Are you still believing his lies?”
“You, of all people, don’t get to say my daughter’s name,” Hades snarled.
Patrick took a step forward, heavenly magic twisting around his arm. “Don’t try to lay your guilt at my feet.”
“I wanted to survive. I wanted to be remembered. There are different paths forward, and not every Fate is on heaven’s side. You and the wolf were never supposed to meet.” Hades smiled, the expression a slow, vicious promise as he twisted his wrist, all five fingers spread, palm pushing outward. “Vα.”
Hades words rang through Patrick’s head, freezing him where he stood for one agonizing moment.
It was enough for the god to gain the upper hand.
As if Hades’ insult was an order, Cerberus surged forward with a threefold roar that nearly made Patrick’s ears pop. Jono met the hellbeast’s charge with an answering snarl as he launched himself at the three-headed immortal.
“No!” Patrick yelled, unable to hold him back, to protect him. “Jono!”
Jono and Cerberus tore into each other with a ferocity that could only lead to death. Even as they fought, Hades was walking toward Patrick with a promise of murder in his dark eyes.
Patrick had no magic, no weapon save the gods-made dagger in his hand. As much as he wanted to save Jono from the wrath of a god, his odds weren’t good when he couldn’t even save himself.
So someone else did the saving for him.
The wall of hellfire had nearly reached Patrick when the flames suddenly went up in smoke. Slim arms coiled around his torso from behind, two slender hands pressing hard over the scars carved into his chest. The rich smell of flowers and fresh, earthy grass filled his nose, spilling into his lungs.
It tasted of spring.
Hades rocked to a halt, one hand lifting in what might have been supplication in anyone else but him. Patrick could see the hurt and deep anger that suffused Hades’ face, the way the immortal’s eyes went wide with both betrayal and a love that bordered precariously close to hate.
“My love, don’t do this,” Hades said, sounding almost desperate.
The smoke turned into fog, blocking out the world as it pulled Patrick under. Those impossibly strong arms caught him as he fell, Hades’ shout and Jono’s snarl of pain fading away.
“I have you,” Persephone whispered into his ear in the ethereal space of the veil.
Which was true, in every way that mattered.
The Greek goddess and queen of the Underworld owned his soul debt, after all.
17
Pain was a companion Jono had become used to since he was seventeen.
Over the years, he’d never quite gotten used to the god riding his soul.
The beast broken forth from his bones was a familiar shape he’d learned to find comfort in. Jono snarled weakly against the binding wards holding him down in the center of a pentagram. The expensive wooden floor beneath him had been ruined where his claws could reach, but it wasn’t enough to break himself free.
Be still.
The voice that echoed through Jono’s mind came from a distance, carrying a roughness to it that sounded how teeth biting into flesh felt. Jono could only obey, the connection in his soul that tied him to his patron tightening like a bowstring. Fenrir’s presence filled his body, filled his soul, as the immortal stared through Jono’s wolf eyes.
They were in someone’s living room, all the furniture removed to make space for the outline of the spell painted on the hardwood floor. Thirteen concentric circles extended away from the pentagram, five supporting radial lines slicing through each one of the star’s points. Magic flowed through the lines, heavy and powerful, keeping Jono trapped in one place.
