“You shouldn’t be here,” Patrick said, clenching his teeth against the pain.
Hermes shrugged, helping Patrick to stand. “Here or elsewhere, your father’s power calls to us.”
“Then get the fuck out of the goddamn spellwork.”
Hermes watched as Hannah picked herself up off the muddy ground, power a sickening fire around her body. “I’ll keep her distracted.”
“Don’t get yourself killed.”
“Worried?” Hermes smiled, a brief flash of mirth in hell. “Don’t be. Hera has her coven praying for me.”
What little strength their prayers would give Hermes probably wouldn’t be enough to face off against Hannah.
“I don’t get paid enough for this,” Patrick said, mostly to himself.
“I don’t know. I think I compensated you just fine.” Hermes unhooked the carbine from Patrick’s vest and easily hefted it in one hand. “I’m going to borrow this.”
Hermes ran off to fight, heaven’s light shining in his other hand, a brighter, cleaner burn than what poured out of Hannah’s soul. Patrick wrenched himself around to face the center of the spellwork, unsurprised to see that Hades had yet to pull the trigger.
“Do not take his side, Persephone,” Hades pleaded.
“What would you have me do? Take yours?” she demanded.
“Yes, because it is the only way we will survive. The Dominion Sect will pray for us.”
“Is that what they promised you when they stole Macaria’s godhead?”
The weapon Hades held wavered before falling as he dropped his arm back down to his side. The god’s expression twisted. If he was human, Patrick would think Hades was grieving.
“They wantedyou,” Hades said, his deep voice catching on the word. “I could not give them my heart.”
Persephone clenched her hands into fists. “So instead you gave them mine? Macaria may not be of my blood and essence, but I was her mother in all the ways that mattered. I would have rather you sacrificed me instead of her.”
She made a sweeping gesture with her arm, and the force she let loose knocked Hades off his feet. The god flew through the air and slammed back to earth outside the sacrificial circle. Persephone looked at Patrick, the fury in her gold-brown eyes tempered by regret.
“Stop Ethan before we lose Zeus the same way we lost Macaria,” she ordered.
Then Persephone strode toward her husband with all the life-affirming power of spring held in one clenched fist.
On his own, Patrick staggered toward the center of the spellwork, leaving the immortals to battle it out on their own for once. He had other things to worry about, like the fact that Ethan was close to ripping open the veil despite the damage done to the spellwork. Hell on earth would be more than enough of a distraction for Ethan to strip Zeus of his godhead.
Between the few acolytes left in the center, Patrick could see Jono’s battered, naked body where he was bound to the spellwork. A binding ward kept Jono from escaping while the silver stakes driven through each shoulder kept him from shifting. The skin ripped open around the spikes looked burned and infected. Behind him stood a soultaker, ugly maw open near his skull, the scene reminiscent of the vision Marek had seen last week.
“Motherfucker,” Patrick snarled.
Those fever-bright wolf eyes unerringly searched out Patrick. Jono spoke, but Patrick couldn’t hear what he said. The shape his lips formed could have been his name. Patrick crossed another circle, getting closer.
He almost made it, but almost didn’t count in war.
Patrick crossed the innermost circle that connected the points of the pentagram when magic slammed into him from behind, knocking him forward. The only reason the hit didn’t kill him was due to the durability charm set into his leather jacket. The charm burned out beneath the onslaught, but it lasted long enough to save Patrick’s life. He hit the ground hard with his shoulder, rolling with the motion to save his neck.
Patrick came to a stop, head spinning, still holding tight to his dagger. He rolled onto his side with a groan, getting an elbow beneath him as he tried to sit up. He missed seeing the boot that slammed into his face, but he definitely felt it.
Patrick pitched sideways, falling down into mud all over again with rain pouring into his eyes. Blackness ate away at the edge of his vision, mingling with the storm. His jaw throbbed from the kick, blood filling his mouth. He turned his head to the side, watching blearily as his past came back to haunt him.
Ethan looked exactly how he always did in Patrick’s nightmares. The sickening glow of his magic, bolstered by Macaria’s godhead, pulsed through his father’s aura. Patrick tried to move, to roll over, toget the fuck away, but his brain wasn’t working. Fear choked the breath from his lungs, and blood loss left him feeling dizzy.
Beneath all of that—the pain, the panic, the desperation—was the realization that this was not how he wanted it to end. He didn’t want to see another city ravaged by hell, or for Jono to end up like Hannah. Patrick didn’t want to lose any more of himself than he had already given to this war. He’d offered up all he was willing to since he was eight years old, and it stoppednow.
