Patrick scowled. “Why are youhere?”
Because crossing the veil was a difficult journey even when you were born with that inherent power. Immortals were once worshipped as gods over thousands and thousands of years, the slavish attention of their followers feeding their primordial power. Stories of their exploits were written down as history before fading into legend and finally turning into myth when their followers died out and the world changed as magic fell to the wayside for long years.
While the world forgot about them and their temples fell to ruin, that didn’t mean immortals had died; they simply faded away to a shadow of their once former powerful selves.
That changed in the last one thousand years or so, when magic began showing up in the human population at a rate higher than a few paltry percentage points. People rediscovered the old myths as living truth and began to worship immortals as gods again. Their power began to return, breathing life into old lives once more.
Then there were those who wanted to own them, as if a god could be owned.
The Dominion Sect had formed hundreds of years ago, drawing together mundane humans and magic users who believed in a better way of life. That their belief required the world to be subjugated through magic, and gods from the hells didn’t bother the group’s founders, nor their descendants. The Dominion Sect had gained followers across the world, though it was only within the last century or so that loyal magic users had come to see a godhead as their divine right. It didn’t matter that a human soul alone couldn’t possibly carry the power of a god—they still wanted it. Greed wasn’t rational, especially when it came to power.
Patrick touched a hand to his chest, his mind skittering away from old memories.
Immortals could find safety beyond the veil, but that was no longer a guarantee, not after the Thirty-Day War. They could find strength in new worshippers, and while science was all the current rage, religion was a quiet, powerful force not to be discounted.
One of those forces was looking at Patrick like he was a problem to be fixed or destroyed.
Preferably destroyed.
“I have a message for you,” Hermes said.
Patrick froze. “The last time you gave me a message, we nearly lost an entire city.”
“Ashanti still saved you.”
“Don’t,” Patrick ground out, mouth twisting. He curled his hands into white-knuckled fists. “Just…don’t, Hermes.”
Patrick’s past was riddled with painful moments, and certain parts were a goddamn minefield of emotions. The Thirty-Day War, and everything he’d lost in that fight, was still an open wound, even now.
Hermes didn’t care. He never did.
The immortal pinned Patrick with a hard look, the fire in his gaze bright like the sun. “You still owe us, so stop running.”
Patrick didn’t promise anything, as always. Immortals hadn’t earned his trust, the same way he hadn’t earned their faith. That enmity wouldn’t change the fact that the immortals siding with all the heavens had endeavored to blackmail him into a soul debt when he was a child and didn’t know what he was agreeing to. They’d done so in order to use him as a weapon in a war his family had started, but which Patrick wanted no part of, even now.
Hermes stood in a sinuous motion before walking over to where Patrick sat. He grabbed one of Patrick’s hands and pressed an ancient Greek obol into his palm. “This is for you.”
Patrick curled his fingers around the roughly hewn gold circle. “You know, we invented these little plastic things called credit cards. You can even pay with a phone app these days.”
Hermes’ mouth curved in a cold smile. “I know. As convenient as both options are, my money is better. I’ll bring you more when Artemis and I find the rest. Dionysus lost them in some poker game in Atlantic City. We’re still tracking them down.”
“Greek coins? I’m in the middle of a case, Hermes. What the hell am I supposed to do with Greek coins?”
“Save us.”
Hermes left the same way he arrived—disappearing through the veil as only an immortal god could. Patrick let his head fall against his bent arms, rolling the coin between his fingers. He could feel the familiar throb of a tension headache coming on.
“Fuck,” he said tiredly. “Fuck.”
The dagger strapped to his right thigh pulsed with a warmth Patrick could feel through the leather sheath. He wondered if all the prayers of its blessed making would be enough to get him through this latest mess.
He fucking hoped so.
3
Tempest was located somewhereon Avenue B, near a park Patrick didn’t know the name of. He did know better than to try driving in a major city for a night out unless he absolutely had to. Parking would be nonexistent, and besides, he wanted a drink. Patrick called for an Uber and arrived in the neighborhood a little before 2000.
The area was more up-and-coming than worn-down, even if the buildings were older than most people walking down the street. Patrick slipped out of the car a few doors down from the bar since traffic was temporarily backed up almost to the corner.
