If Patrick needed to be precise about anything, it was this.
Santa Muerte’s magic arced between the rotary machines, the damage it caused in the protective wards spreading. Patrick focused his magic and released the fusillade spell on a silent command. Magic poured through Jono’s soul into his, feeding the spell with power and bolstering Patrick’s strength.
His magic targeted every single Santa Muerte idol standing on top of the anchor points at once, pouring his magic into them. Drawing power from the ley line gave the spell enough of a boost so that Patrick could overload Santa Muerte’s idols.
It took effort, and a focus Patrick fought to keep on his target, but he could feel the idols crack beneath his attack. Pinned between the barrier ward and Patrick’s magic, every last idol exploded in a riot of brightly colored light that cut through the shadows. The sound of their destruction echoed loud enough in the sub-basement to make Patrick’s ears ring.
White lightning erupted from the Greek coin and crackled over every rotary machine. The barrier ward embedded in the gold coin spread over the damage on the anchor points like a tsunami, holding the base of the protective wards together.
The shadows melted away, taking with them the marigold petals that covered the floor. Fluorescent light gradually shone down on them, revealing bright wards that covered the walls and floor all around them in a cascade of old magic.
In the sudden echoing silence, Patrick heard Lucien speak.
“Santa Muerte was no mother to you, Tremaine.”
Patrick looked over his shoulder, wincing at the pain in his neck. Tremaine knelt on the floor in the spot he’d landed in after Patrick’s attack. His left arm was blown apart to the elbow, thick black blood dripping from the stump around shattered bone and ragged flesh.
Lucien knelt behind him, digging his fingers deep into the side of Tremaine’s neck. Black blood flowed from the wound like a waterfall. The sound of breaking bone and tearing flesh indicated Lucien was going for Tremaine’s heart with his other hand. Tremaine’s mouth moved soundlessly as Lucien worked a hand through his rib cage from behind, his entire body jerking from the internal excavation.
Lucien pressed his mouth to Tremaine’s ear, his voice rough and unforgiving as the space around them was suddenly filled with the vampires who’d joined them underground. “If you had stayed, I wouldn’t have punished you like this. If you had come crawling back on your knees, I would have welcomed you home. But you chose to run, and you didn’t run far enough. That’s one lesson you never learned, child.”
Lucien wrenched his hand free from Tremaine’s back, pulling out his child’s heart in one easy motion. His other hand tore upward through Tremaine’s neck until his fingers caught on bone. Lucien ripped Tremaine’s head off his body with a meatycrack.
Tremaine’s body collapsed to the ground. Lucien tossed Tremaine’s head on the corpse and got to his feet.
“Leave the body,” Patrick rasped. “We need it as evidence.”
A cold nose prodded his shoulder, followed by the warmth of a body Patrick tiredly leaned against. Jono held him up, a rock Patrick didn’t want to let go of.
Lucien looked around at the protective wards and the dark areas in the barrier ward where Patrick’s magic had shattered every idol.
“You haven’t had the strength to use that spell since the Thirty-Day War,” Lucien said, black-eyed gaze pinning him with a knowing look. “You’re just full of surprises these days.”
Patrick gave him the middle finger. “Fuck off.”
He was tired and aching, and still had thirteen stories of underground stairs to climb. The relief coursing through Patrick’s body left him feeling almost numb. They needed to get magic users down here with an affinity for defensive magic, but he knew the barrier ward would hold until then. A god’s magic was worth its weight in gold.
They climbed their way out of the sub-basement for the world above, leaving the dead behind for later processing. Tremaine’s death was a true death this time, killed twice by the one who had made him, his business empire broken and his throne empty. The remains of what Tremaine had built in New York City belonged to Lucien now.
They always had.
Patrick wasn’t surprised when Lucien disappeared with his Night Court the moment they reached topside. The breeze of their passage was the only goodbye he got. Patrick, Jono, and Sage made their way back to the Main Concourse, the lights back on in Grand Central and the shadows gone.
The scars of Santa Muerte and Áltsé Hashké’s fight lay carved in the floor of the terminal, but that was the only damage in the area. Those commuters who hadn’t been able to evacuate in time weren’t dead. Freed of the shadows, they huddled together in shock or headed for the exits on stumbling feet. The fearful looks thrown his way reminded Patrick he was a bruised mess while walking between two werecreatures. He probably looked like a threat, but Patrick didn’t have time to stop and explain away his appearance.
He let everyone think whatever they liked as he took in the Main Concourse, the chandeliers and other lights illuminating the space. The clock in the center glowed with magic, same as it had in the shadows cast by death’s shroud. Tiny sparks floated away from it up to the ceiling in a shining ribbon of light that defied gravity.
Every constellation painted on the turquoise background of the mural high above them glittered like actual stars. Magic crawled across the ceiling in unstoppable waves. Protective wards became visible, flowing down the gold roof arches to the walls and the floors, spilling down stairs and ramps to the tracks below and the subway tunnels that crisscrossed the city.
Patrick’s shoulders slumped in relief at the sight of working magic. Jono bumped his hand with a cold nose and Patrick absently scratched his muzzle.
The wards would hold.
“Let’s finish this up.”
22
The summer sunbeat down on Patrick’s shoulders through the tree branches above. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, making his skin itch. The Yankees baseball cap he wore matched many others in the midday weekend crowd in Central Park, helping to hide his hair. The aviator sunglasses he wore cut down on the glare of sunlight as he stared at the line of people snaking away from the hot dog cart farther down the pathway.
