A Ferry of Bones & Gold (Soulbound Book 1), page 31
And a son who didn’t know how to fucking lie down and die.
“I have no use for you. I never did,” Ethan told him. Magic dripped like fire from his hands as he reached for Patrick’s heart to try to tear it out all over again.
“You keep trying for godhood,” Patrick spat out as he raised both hands over his chest, the dagger gleaming with magic-wrought prayers. “And you keep failing because you aren’t fucking worthy.”
He sliced the dagger over the meat of his palm, cutting deep. Blood coursed down his hand and wrist, a waterfall of red that he slammed down onto the line of the hexagon making up the center of the pentagram. The impact rang like a bell in his head, a deafening sound that blocked everything else out.
Blood called to blood, and Patrick only had one command.
“Break!” he snarled, pouring all his will into the word.
He had no magic left, only what borrowed strength the dagger could give him. It was enough to crack the outline of the pentagram, the center of the spellwork breaking into pieces.
“No!” Ethan roared, forced to pour his magic into the spellwork rather than Patrick’s body, struggling to keep it together.
Patrick rolled away, digging deep for a strength that had gotten him through his life. He got his hands and one knee underneath him and started to crawl. Pieces of the pentagram floated in the air, strands of magic struggling to realign the shape of it. But the magic was too wild, the foundation too unstable, for it to be pieced back together quickly and correctly.
The acolytes at the center of the spellwork screamed as they died, their magic and souls sucked into the spell by Ethan’s need. The air felt heavy around him, pressure coming from above where the sky broke open from the backlash, the tear in the veil an ugly hole between all the hells and the mortal plane.
The pillars of light burned out one by one save for where Zeus stood, still tied to the spellwork, an anchor that needed to be set free. Patrick kept his focus on Jono, eyes flickering to the soultaker that could only follow its hunger.
That gaping maw split wide, all its jagged teeth glinting in the glow of magic. Desperation gave Patrick the push he needed to lunge at Jono and the demon intent on ripping out the other man’s soul.
The dagger cut through the soultaker’s skull with ease, but not before those sharp teeth sank into Jono’s shoulder. His scream filled Patrick’s ears, blood pouring down his torso. The black blade of the dagger turned white, heavenly fire burning through the soultaker’s body like an inferno. The demon turned to ash that mingled with the rain, dirty rivulets of water running down Jono’s torso, mixing with his blood.
The binding ward fell apart beneath the cut of the dagger. Patrick panted for breath, the crash of thunder directly above causing him to look up. A hellish red glow spread through the sky, and all he could sense in his damaged soul was hell.
“You must close it.”
His eyes snapped to Jono’s pale face, the voice of a god falling between them. Jono’s accent was gone, replaced by a different one that sounded like teeth ripping through bone.
“I can’t,” Patrick said desperately. “Closing a rift requires a nexus.”
He didn’t have that reach anymore, didn’t have the ability to channel external magic. Three years since that loss and his soul wound had never felt so crippling.
“You must.”
Patrick frantically shook his head as he pulled the silver stakes out of Jono’s shoulders one at a time. The wounds didn’t immediately close, the blackened chemical burns at the edges telling Patrick aconite was probably involved. Jono was still tied to the spell that Ethan was holding together, Zeus’ godhead a prize his father would do anything to gain—even if it meant letting hell reign on earth once more.
“Patrick.” Jono’s voice this time, without the ringing otherworldliness of a god in his tone. “This is where I’m meant to be.”
Here, in the middle of a maelstrom, a god pack alpha werewolf with ties to an immortal. Someone the Fates had thrown into Patrick’s path without giving either of them a choice in the matter.
“Jono,” Patrick said, his voice breaking on the other man’s name.
The magic all around them began to reform, the spellwork piecing itself together beneath Ethan’s focused will, backed by the Dominion Sect who served him.
They were running out of time.
“Save us.”
Patrick touched his bloody hand to Jono’s face, smearing red across too-cold skin, and pressed a hard kiss to cold lips. “Tell your god he fucking sucks at guiding you.”
Then he grabbed Jono’s right hand in his left, pressed it to the muddy ground, and drove his dagger through both their hands.
Pain ripped through Patrick’s arm, fingertips going numb. Magic exploded away from their joined hands, the dagger impossible to see within the star-bright glow. Patrick knew he screamed, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the scalding rush of raw power pouring through his soul. It cut deep, ripping through metaphysical scars, and Patrick was certain the only reason his soul wasn’t torn out of his body was due to Persephone’s wards set in his bones.
The scarred channels of his soul broke open as something else—someone else—filled the space. Patrick stared into Jono’s strangely calm eyes as the magic set in the dagger tied their souls together through blood.
Exactly how Ethan had bound Hannah to him.
Like father, like son.
That sickening realization had Patrick reeling backward, but he couldn’t escape what was happening. All he could do was live through it, the bright wash of awareness he hadn’t felt in years pouring through him by way of Jono. Through Jono’s soul, Patrick could sense the nexus—filled with wild magic—far beneath the earth.
He could reach it.
Jono’s soul, bound to his, acted like a safety break for his magic. Patrick could feel how the connection between them could help him channel power without either of them burning out—Patrick because he was a mage with crippled magic and Jono because of a god’s favor.
Patrick fumbled for the dagger, weak fingers pulling it free. His mouth opened on a silent scream, pain lancing up his arm from the self-inflicted stab wound. Blood pooled in the wound it left behind before spilling between his fingers. Everything around him had taken on a new hue, and the colors spun sickeningly when Jono shoved him to the ground.
The shock-wave spell rolled over them but the leading edge of the attack broke against Jono’s shifting form, the magic between them dispelling it. He shouldn’t have been able to shift, not with aconite poisoning running through his veins, but Jono was a god pack alpha werewolf with ties to a god. He had reservoirs of strength few other werecreatures possessed.
Man changed to beast with a sickening crunch of bone and splitting of skin above Patrick’s body. One large paw the size of his head sank into the muddy ground near his ribs. Jono was so big in his wolf-form that he mostly blocked the rain from soaking Patrick’s body. That monstrous wolf head swung down toward him after the change, bright blue eyes meeting his.
Patrick lifted his bleeding hand and gently touched Jono’s cold snout. His shaking fingers slipped between sharp teeth. Magic crackled between them, the pull of the nexus impossible to resist through both their souls.
So Patrick didn’t.
He closed his eyes, reaching through Jono’s soul for something he hadn’t thought he’d ever touch again. Patrick’s soul stretched itself thin, but Jono’s kept him anchored as he sought to replenish his drained magic with the reservoir of power that lived beneath New York City.
It roiled far below the surface, destabilized by Ethan’s interference. Patrick could sense how the ley lines had been choked off from it, breakwaters initiated in those rivers of magic by SOA mages. The nexus itself was still viable, despite everything happening around them.
Patrick breathed in, and when he exhaled out, it was like being struck by lightning.
Magic poured through him—deep, wild magic that he bent to his will. Drawing on skills he’d left by the wayside when he never thought he’d have this again, Patrick manipulated the raw magic into something akin to a reverse lightning bolt. He opened his eyes and raised his other arm toward the sky, staring past the brightly burning dagger in his hand at the fury of hell twisting through the storm.
Patrick framed the spell in his mind, the same one he’d used in Cairo. He could see it forming in the world around him, the pattern crystal clear and sharp.
“Close.”
Magic exploded through them, guided by Patrick’s focused will. His spine arched, shoulders and heels pressing down into the mud as power crashed through the spellwork with devastating results. It raced through their souls and found release through the dagger, heaven’s fire guiding magic into the sky.
It hit the clouds, sinking into their black depths. The rain seemed to flow upward, into the sky, before falling back down to earth. The sonic boom of magic gone nova exploded in the sky, shining like the sun at high noon for one searing instant that momentarily blinded Patrick.
He blinked, colored spots dancing across his eyes before coalescing into stars in the night sky. A perfect circle had formed within the storm clouds above Central Park, the rain falling around them at the edges like a waterfall.
The veil had sealed shut, but what had come through while it was open would need to be dealt with in the future.
Patrick’s arm dropped to the ground, grip loosening on his now-quiescent dagger. His fingers slid free of Jono’s teeth as the werewolf collapsed to the empty ground beside him. The radial lines and circles of the sacrificial spellwork had shattered into a million glowing pieces that were fading away all around them.
At the head of the radial line once pointing true north, Zeus shook himself free of the magic that had bound him. His precisely tailored suit was ruined by the storm, graying hair wet and curling around a stern face. The king of the Greek gods looked unsettlingly human in that moment, which proved how close Ethan had come to succeeding this time around.
The god approached where Patrick and Jono lay with measured steps. Patrick watched him come—too numb, too cold, too drunk on magic to care about immortals and their games anymore.
Zeus knelt in the muck of an urban battlefield and touched a finger to Patrick’s forehead.
“Sleep,” Zeus said, his voice like the rumble of thunder in the storm high above.
Patrick closed his eyes and slept, but couldn’t escape his nightmares. They followed him relentlessly into his dreams.
20
Losing time never stopped being disorienting.
Patrick opened his eyes to the white walls and ceiling of a private hospital room, the steady sound of machines monitoring his vitals filling his ears. The pinch of a needle stung the back of his hand, and he blearily looked down at where two IV lines were each connected to a vein. The hospital gown was itchy and rough. The heart rate monitor clipped to the end of his right index finger was annoying.
The bed was positioned so he was half sitting up. Patrick gazed around the empty hospital room, noticing the large window off to his right that looked out onto a nurse’s desk. He could see two armed SOA agents standing guard outside his room.
His left thigh hurt, but not as badly as he thought it should. He dragged the thin blanket aside and poked at the bandage wrapped around his leg. Either he’d been unconscious longer than he thought, or someone had added a healer to the mix of doctors overseeing his care. Patrick assumed it was the latter. A healer could tend to the body, but they couldn’t do anything about the state of his soul.
His left hand was lightly bandaged, and ached, but no longer felt as if it were on fire. When Patrick flexed his fingers, they all responded, a clear sign he’d escaped nerve damage. Patrick pressed his other hand over the scars on his chest, trying to calm his breathing. He could feel his magic again, a quiet flicker deep in his soul as it slowly returned, but that wasn’t all he could feel.
Jono, he thought bleakly.
Patrick shied away from the ties that bound his soul to another person, the illegality of the act threatening to make him sick. He used his trickle of magic to reset his personal shields using the anchors carved into his bones. They did nothing to block out Patrick’s awareness of Jono.
“Fuck,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I see you’re finally awake.”
Patrick’s head snapped up, watching as Nadine walked into the hospital room. She looked tired, one hand holding a little paper cup of shitty hospital coffee. She approached his bedside on quiet feet, eyeing him critically. Dark circles showed beneath her eyes even through her makeup. Her shoulders were slumped with exhaustion, but she still managed a tired smile for him.
“Where am I?” Patrick asked in a rough voice. His mouth was dry and tasted disgusting. He needed about a gallon of Listerine to fix that, or a shot of whiskey. He’d take either right about now. “What day is it?”
Nadine grabbed the water pitcher off the rolling bedside table and poured him a glass. Patrick took it from her gratefully.
“Bellevue. It’s Thursday afternoon. You’ve been out for quite a while,” she said.
Patrick eyed the whiteboard bolted to the wall opposite the foot of his bed. The name of his current nurse was written in washable ink, as well as a coded list of his current treatment that might as well have been written in a foreign language for all he understood it.
He swallowed slowly, shivering at the memory of the fight in Central Park. “Tell me what happened.”
Nadine dragged the uncomfortable-looking hospital chair closer to his bed. She sat down, never letting go of her coffee. “I’m sure you noticed the guards.”
“I’m not handcuffed.”
“You’re not under arrest. They’re for your protection. Not all of the Dominion Sect magic users were caught.”
He could guess who was missing. “Ethan and Hannah escaped.”
“Yes. Hades took them through the veil.”
Patrick let his head fall back against the pillow. “You realize no security guard in the world would be able to stop them if they really wanted to get in here?”
Nadine smiled grimly. “I shielded the room. Besides, Ethan will probably lay low for a while now that the public knows he’s alive.”
“Did any of his people survive that fight?”
“Rachel did. Outside of Ethan’s escape, her arrest is all anyone is talking about on the news.”
“You didn’t kill her?”
Nadine arched an eyebrow. “You asked me not to.”
Patrick shrugged tiredly. “If your finger accidentally slipped on the trigger, I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
“Believe me, I thought about it, but your director is going to need a scapegoat when the dust finally settles.”
“What do you mean?”
“That Congress isn’t appreciative of my decision to keep Rachel in her position when I first had my suspicions about her loyalty. They fail to realize a belief isn’t probable cause, much less solid evidence,” a familiar voice replied.
Patrick stared at where SOA Director Setsuna Abuku stood in the doorway to his hospital room. The fifty-one-year-old woman packed a wealth of power in her aura despite only being a witch. Her sheer presence was enough to draw anyone’s attention when she stepped into a room.
On the petite side, with jet-black hair cut into a blunt bob around a thin, barely wrinkled face, the SOA director wore a precisely tailored business suit. She held a tote bag in one hand and a rosewood cane in the other. The cane had intricately carved steps twisting upward to the image of a Shinto shrine at the top. Delicate kanji were written over every step, the prayers a quiet hum to Patrick’s senses.
Setsuna let the door close behind her and tapped it with her cane, warding the room for silence. Static flowed over the walls and ceiling and floor, shrouding them in a bubble of privacy.
“There are rumors already about a congressional hearing,” Nadine added.
Patrick made a face. “Great. What I wouldn’t give to be back in the military so the brass could deal with the mess and leave me out of it.”
His after-action reports regarding the Thirty-Day War were highly classified and he had gladly let the chain of command handle the scrutiny of the public once the fighting was over. Unfortunately, Patrick didn’t think he’d be able to get out of testifying before Congress about what happened this week if they subpoenaed him.
“I may have to reach out to the Joint Chiefs regarding this issue. We’ll see,” Setsuna said.
Nadine took a sip of her coffee and made a face at whatever she tasted. “We have Rachel to take the fall. That should be helpful to a degree.”
Patrick snorted. “Until the Dominion Sect decides she’s better off dead in order to keep their secrets.”
“She is under twenty-four-hour watch at a classified location,” Setsuna said.
“Running black sites on domestic soil again, are we?” Patrick asked caustically.
Setsuna leveled a flat look his way. “The SOA does no such thing.”
Patrick rolled his eyes, letting her stick to whatever story she wanted to tell. He’d claim deniability by way of unconsciousness all the way to the courts in that area. “When can I leave?”
“You still need to be debriefed.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“You’re recovering from a gunshot wound in your thigh, a stab wound to your hand, severe bruising, and magical backlash on top of magical burnout,” Nadine pointed out.
“I can negotiate with the doctor or just AMA my way out.”
“They’re doctors. We don’t negotiate with medical personnel like that.”
“AMA it is.”
Nadine picked his cell phone off the table and waved it at him. It had survived the fight in Central Park with only a slightly cracked screen, which was impressive. “I have a text from Smooth Dog who insists you’ll try to pull that stunt and to handcuff you to the bed as a preventative measure.”
