He ducked back into the control booth, and moments later all the doors slid closed. Patrick took a seat beside Sage and dropped his duffel bag between his feet. He unzipped it and started pulling out his field gear, strapping it on piece by piece. Armored joint pads for knees and elbows, a Kevlar-lined tactical vest streamlined for a breach procedure rather than patrol, a hard helmet, night-vision goggles, and his M4A1 carbine.
He’d worn his dagger and tactical pistol out of the apartment, with the quartz crystal artifact tucked into his front pocket. The only other thing he carried was his phone and car keys secured in a pouch on his belt.
Patrick took a moment to calibrate the ACOG scope on the rifle to his eyesight before clipping the strap to his tactical vest. The weight of the rifle was a comfort that steadied him in a way little else did these days except for Jono.
The vampires in Lucien’s Night Court were donning their own gear, with several pulling on balaclavas, including Lucien. Considering the police force they might be dealing with at the end of the night, hiding their faces was a good decision.
He leaned back and stared at the opposite window across the subway car. Hints of magic swirled at the peripheral of his vision as they passed through the tunnel. Wade sat on the other side of Sage, pale-faced and nervously tapping his fingers against his knees. The bulletproof Kevlar-lined vest he wore was almost too big for his skinny frame. Sage reached over and grabbed his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Hey. We won’t let anything happen to you,” Sage said.
“They’ll know we’re coming,” Wade said quietly, sounding more like a child than a teenager.
The fear in his voice, in his eyes, made Patrick feel guilty about dragging him down into this nightmare but not enough to leave him behind. Wade had wanted to come, but that didn’t make this situation easier.
If he was a better person, maybe he would’ve put Wade’s trauma first. If they weren’t fighting against gods, then he could have. But weighed against a city of millions, one teenager’s shitty past wasn’t enough to make Patrick change his mind. In war, there was no such thing as the greater good, only good enough for now. Patrick couldn’t always be a good person.
He hated that about himself sometimes, especially right now.
“Probably,” Patrick said. “Doesn’t mean they’re prepared. And Sage is right. We’ll do our best to keep you safe.”
Patrick could only hope Tremaine’s arrogance would leave them a couple desperately needed openings to take him down.
The ride to the drop-off point was quick, with the train rolling to a stop before it entered the Spring Street Station. The doors opened, the darkness in the tunnel beckoning them forward. The conductor poked his head out of the booth again.
“I’ll radio that you’re dropped off,” he said.
Patrick flashed him a thumbs-up before tugging his NVGs over his eyes and leaving the train with everyone else. They walked forward down the track to where the headlights illuminated a set of rusted tracks curving off the main line. The tracks led into a separate tunnel walled off by an iron grate over the entrance, with a door built into it.
When Patrick placed a gloved hand on the grate, magic flickered alive in the iron, protective wards that should have been whole but weren’t. He looked over his shoulder, the world tinged green through the goggles, but Lucien was easy enough to find.
“The damage extends out here. I need to set the barrier ward at the source of the damage,” Patrick said.
“Someone get us through,” Lucien ordered.
Sage stepped forward and wrapped her fingers around the rusted lock and door handle. With a grunt, she broke it off, easily shattering the iron. The wards sputtered and sparked around the damage but didn’t lash out at her. It told Patrick in no uncertain terms the damage went deeper than was safe.
With the way open, everyone continued on. Like Patrick, Sergio’s cartel members wore NVGs to help them navigate the darkness. The vampires, Sage, and Wade didn’t need that kind of external help. The group walked nearly three-quarters of a mile down old rusted tracks through the dark, damaged magic scraping against Patrick’s shields with every step he took.
When they reached the abandoned subway station, Patrick had to force his heart to remain steady, his mind flashing back to unwanted hands on his body and the way the world had tilted in the light of a thousand candles.
Now, the candles were snuffed out, the altar where Santa Muerte had sat on her framed throne empty of the goddess. The flowers had all dried out to husks, the floral scent buried beneath the musty air that filled this area of the subway system.
Patrick took it all in with clear eyes and mind. He reminded himself that he hadn’t died down here thanks to the god who sat in coyote form in front of the steel vault door that led to the heart of Tremaine’s Night Court.
“Okay, someone needs to say it. This is too easy,” Patrick said.
Lucien approached the vault door, assault rifle held in his hands. “Tremaine always had a blind spot when it came to his defenses.”
“Like what? Not having enough?”
“By thinking walls were enough on their own. I see no tripwires or bombs. He’s just barricaded his back door.” Lucien paused before shaking his head. “Ah. Stanilesti.”
Einar looked at Lucien with a mildly disapproving expression on his face. “That was not one of your better plans.”
Patrick dug out the quartz crystal from his pocket and gripped it tightly. “Care to explain to those of us who haven’t lived through history?”
“The Ottomans won the battle with Russia, though not the war.”
