That was something Patrick couldn’t outright promise to do, but he liked Casale. He knew from experience that working with local law enforcement was better than working against them. No one was helped in the end by different departments and agencies refusing to share leads.
Patrick and Jono preceded Casale out of the office and to the elevator. The three of them didn’t speak on the way down to the ground floor and went their separate ways. Patrick was relieved to discover the Mustang was untouched this time around when they made it back to the warded parking garage.
“Home?” Jono asked as he unlocked the car doors with a push of a button.
“Yeah.”
* * *
When Patrick was a boy,before his mother and twin sister were murdered by his father, he called Salem, Massachusetts, home. He had vague memories of that house and his mother’s family who would visit, bringing treats and charms to entertain Hannah and him.
After—after the blood and the scars and a life granted in exchange for a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep—Patrick grew up in an Academy for magic users, a ward of the state with a brand-new identity. Ten years of tutelage earned him a contract with the Mage Corps and a roster spot in the Citadel, the premier military school for magic users.
None of those places had a bed he enjoyed sleeping in. When he finally deployed, he slept where he could: cots, bunks, foxholes, and always with a weapon close at hand.
Patrick never had a home, not since Salem, but the apartment he shared with Jono was slowly becoming one. Learning to live with someone else in his personal space so intimately was a process, one where compromise was key.
Despite the low-grade headache building at the back of his skull from stress and nicotine cravings, Patrick wasn’t going to light up a cigarette. Quitting smoking because Jono asked was something Patrick was committed to. At times like this, he desperately wished he could have just one more smoke break. Jono made a pretty good distraction though.
That fact was proven when they finally made it home, the threshold around the apartment a comforting barrier between them and the rest of the world. Patrick kicked the door shut behind them and locked it. Jono dropped Patrick’s luggage by the door before taking his hand and pulling him toward the bedroom.
Patrick followed willingly, feeling the long day—hell, the entire week—in his muscles. As much as he wouldn’t mind a night full of welcome-home sex, the siren song of sleep called to him.
“Don’t think I’m up for much right now,” Patrick said.
He started undoing the straps that kept his gods-given dagger strapped to his right thigh while Jono worked at unholstering his sidearm.
“Happy to have you home, is all,” Jono murmured, leaning down to press a warm, openmouthed kiss to the pulse of Patrick’s throat. “You need to shower?”
Patrick didn’t particularly want to, but considering the day he’d had, it was probably the better option. “Yeah. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”
Washing off the grittiness of travel went a long ways to making him feel better. The warm water helped loosen his muscles and eased some of the lingering bruising he still carried. The scars on his chest from nearly being sacrificed as a child by Ethan were pale against his skin, the dog tags he still wore falling on top of them. He couldn’t feel the metal in certain spots, the damage too deep.
Persephone had healed him after Patrick unwittingly agreed to her terms years ago. She’d let the wound scar, a reminder of his mistake in sayingyes. Patrick had kept them covered up as much as possible until Jono came into his life.
Patrick finished getting clean and got out of the shower, drying off before pulling on a pair of boxers. Summer was in full swing, but the apartment was cool due to the air-conditioning Jono had running most of the day in anticipation of Patrick coming home.
Jono was in their bed when Patrick exited the master bathroom. Unlike Patrick, Jono slept in the nude, and was already under the duvet, the covers pushed down to his waist. He was on his phone but put it aside once Patrick turned off the lights and crawled into bed. Jono dragged him close without a word, the heat he gave off a counter to the coolness in the bedroom.
In the dark, Jono’s voice was a deep rumble between them. “Think it could be the same group of immortals from before?”
Patrick grimaced and slung an arm over Jono’s torso. “Doubtful, but I won’t rule it out. Hermes has a tendency to pop up like a fucking cockroach.”
“Do vampires have a god?”
Patrick stiffened, his reaction impossible to hide, not when he was pressed so close to Jono. He swallowed thickly, the sound loud between them. “Yes, but it’s not her.”
“You’re sure?”
Patrick closed his eyes, a flash image of fire burning across the back of his eyelids—Ashanti disintegrating right in front of him. The mother of all vampires had died in the Thirty-Day War three years ago, sacrificing herself to deliver Patrick’s dagger to him and help break the Dominion Sect’s spell. Growing up, Ashanti had been an unholy mentor to him from time to time. Her absence in the world was a reality Patrick hated living with.
“Yes,” he repeated with more conviction.
“Then I suppose the only place to go for answers is the god pack,” Jono said, sounding vaguely irritated at that fact. “I doubt they’ll be very forthcoming.”
“If they obstruct the case in any way, I’ll be within my rights to charge them over that.”
“As much as I’d love to see them get a bit of comeuppance, it’d be a right mess within the werecreature community if you did. People might be unwilling to chat with you about whoever’s gone missing.”
