Hermes smiled grimly as he hauled open a door, the shadowy blackness behind it reaching for them. “Because Persephone isn’t pleased with Santa Muerte trying to take your soul.”
“Yeah, whatever. She owns it. Everyone else can get in line, is that it?”
“Exactly.”
Steeling himself, Patrick walked into the darkness, the blade of his dagger lighting the way. He blinked, able to make out the foyer, though everything was shadowy and dim save for the millions of marigold petals that covered the floor.
“Okay. This looks bad,” Patrick said as everyone else joined him in the foyer.
Lucien yanked the balaclava off his head and tossed it aside. “Try to have some fun.”
“Dying isn’t fun, asshole.”
They walked through a second set of doors, entering the Vanderbilt Hall. Everything was shaded-out gray and wrapped in shadows. Even the grand chandeliers up above didn’t let out any light. Straight ahead was an arched opening that led to the Main Concourse. Patrick could see the golden glow of the clock straight ahead against the darkness, shrouded in magic that seeped up from far below.
Marigold petals puffed up with every step they took, the smell of the flowers something Patrick wished he could forget. Jono and Sage marched on either side of him, heat pouring off their bodies, but Patrick couldn’t shake off the cold.
They passed swirls of heavy shadows that looked almost like fog until faces appeared in the grayness. Patrick realized they were people—souls—trapped in this strange darkness flowing up out of the fringe of the veil. Not quite dead, not quite alive, but some weird in-between brought on by the power of an immortal.
As they entered the Main Concourse, Patrick’s gaze was drawn to the skeletal goddess standing in front of the information desk beneath that famous golden clock. Her black dress fell past her feet to the floor, disappearing into the marigold petals like an inky waterfall. Santa Muerte watched them come with a smile on her painted face, her scythe held in one hand, though the globe was missing.
Death, in all her glory, was strangely beautiful.
Santa Muerte extended an arm, pointing at Patrick. “You will lie down on my altar.”
“I don’t fucking think so,” Patrick shot back. “Hermes, get us below.”
Hermes made an exaggerated gesture at Santa Muerte. “You might want to deal with her first.”
“Do I look like I’m immortal? You play bait this time.”
Santa Muerte slammed the butt of her scythe against the floor. The shock wave barely made the marigold petals flutter, but it sent Patrick and everyone else flying through the air. He landed hard, rolling with the hit, petals filling his mouth and nose. He spat them out and shoved himself to his feet, dagger still in hand.
The blade of the scythe glinted brightly, even in shadow, as it cut through the air toward him. Patrick twisted to the side and raised his dagger instead of his shields, locking his elbows. The dagger scraped against the head of the scythe before catching at the point where it attached to the black snaith. Patrick stared up into Santa Muerte’s grinning, skull-like face and hoped the prayers in his dagger would be enough to keep him from dying.
Santa Muerte suddenly spun around, twisting the snaith in her hands. The curved blade cut through the air around her in an arc. Jono ducked beneath the blade and clamped his jaws around the black wood, white fire seeping out of his wolf-bright eyes.
“Cousin, you are on the wrong side,” Santa Muerte said.
Jono growled around the weapon caught between his teeth and didn’t let go.
A hand grabbed Patrick by the back of his tactical vest, hauling him to his feet. He twisted in the grip, bringing his right arm around to stab whoever was behind him. A too-warm hand grabbed his wrist as an amused chuckle filled his ears.
“That blade does not need my blood again,” Áltsé Hashké said.
Patrick stopped fighting, letting the trickster god pull him away from where Jono and Santa Muerte fought over control of the scythe.
“I can’t leave him behind,” Patrick protested.
“He will stay with you. The lady and I will have words about her desecration of the children.”
“They aren’t of your people.”
Áltsé Hashké shook his head. “The beasts they carry are. All beasts belong to the Creator. Those are the souls I care about.”
Lucien dropped down beside them, a shadow amongst all the gray as Áltsé Hashké went to argue with death.
“Tremaine is not on this level,” Lucien said.
