Ferdiad’s accentwas nothing like Gerard’s. He sounded as Irish as the fae they’d left behind in Tír na nÓg, but looked nothing like the last couple of gods Patrick had dealt with. Ferdiad was one who had embraced the modern world rather than live on the other side of the veil. In the glare of lightning and the illumination of the clashing Wild Hunt and Sluagh in the sky, Patrick could just make out the weirdly mottled skin on Ferdiad’s face and hands.
The immortal wore black body armor and could’ve passed as any mercenary-for-hire if one ignored the spear he held. The weapon didn’t burn with magic like Gerard’s, but Patrick was going to treat the damned thing as an artifact and a threat unless proven otherwise.
“I won’t ask again,” Gerard said, pointing theGáe Bulgat his brother.
“If you want her, get on your knees and beg,” Ferdiad said, falling into a fighting stance.
“Gods don’t beg.”
Gwyn ap Nudd’s words fell off of Gerard’s lips, and all the rage he’d been holding back followed with a yell Patrick remembered from the battlefield. It echoed in the air like thunder as Gerard lunged forward, thrusting theGáe Bulgforward to push Ferdiad back. The other immortal pushed Gerard’s spear aside, but the defensive move was immediately countered by Gerard.
The two engaged in an arms dance that had them both leaping to scale the wall with a reach no human would have. They left the entrance wide open as they fought. Patrick ran through it with Jono, hunched over to clear the low ceiling. He kept his shields raised and clambered up a set of stone stairs. When he cleared the narrow passage, Patrick was nearly thrown off his feet by the coordinated attack led by Zachary Myers and other Dominion Sect acolytes.
Pale blue sparks burned away from his shields as multiple attack spells slammed into him. Jono braced him from behind, making sure he didn’t tumble down the stairs. Patrick pressed his hand against the curve of his shield and added another layer, strengthening it as much as he could.
Witchlights flickered into existence above them, casting silvery light on the waterlogged courtyard. The beehive-shaped domes built out of rocks by long dead monks rose behind Zachary and some of his fighters. Patrick took in where they held the line with a couple of soultakers, blocking the path that led to the domes. He didn’t see Ethan or Hannah, but that didn’t mean they weren’t here somewhere.
Gunfire and shouting echoed through the air from other areas of the island—the Hellraisers were taking the fight to other Dominion Sect mercenaries. Patrick hoped all the enemy magic users were standing in front of him and not making his old team’s lives a living hell.
“Patrick,” Zachary said, his hands raised, palms extended outward. Beneath the witchlights, Patrick could make out the black concentric circles tattooed onto the palms of his hands.
“Where’s Órlaith?” Patrick demanded.
Zachary smiled, fingers spreading wider. “She’s ours now.”
The winter chill couldn’t compete with the icy feeling that trickled down Patrick’s spine. He’d survived being sacrificed to the hells as a child when his twin sister had not. Hannah’s body contained Macaria’s godhead now, a mistake that Ethan had yet to rectify. Ethan was tied to Hannah, and he used the power in her soul like his own personal nexus.
That power bolstered Ethan’s efforts in the past to steal Ra and Zeus’ godheads. Patrick hoped Ethan hadn’t tried again with Órlaith, but he wouldn’t know until he got eyes on the Summer Lady.
“She never belonged toyouin the first place.”
“We take what we want for the greater good.”
“Is that what you’re calling it these days?”
Patrick eyed the soultakers that paced on either side of Zachary. The bullets in the rifle Gerard had given him wouldn’t pierce the demons’ thick skin, and any magic he used on them threatened to be swallowed whole. Patrick hesitated a second before he ejected the magazine from the rifle and shoved it into his back pocket. He dropped the rifle to the ground, with the intention of retrieving it later if they survived this mess. He needed his hands free for this fight.
Patrick conjured up half a dozen mageglobes, lining them up in front of him. He unsheathed his dagger and gripped it tightly. White heavenly fire erupted from it, the silver words of prayers in languages he didn’t speak drifting across the matte-black blade. Patrick extended his free hand toward Jono, fingers brushing over thick wet fur.
Across from him, the concentric tattooed circles on Zachary’s palms split open in the center of each line. Blood dripped down the palm of his hands and off his skin to form murky, red-black mageglobes in the air. The recognition that shot through Patrick at the use of blood magic made him almost gag.
“Oh, it’s that fucker.”
Keith came up the stairs into the courtyard, and Patrick was quick to raise a shield between his friend and the enemy.
“Thought you had your orders?” Patrick asked, not taking his eyes off Zachary.
Keith braced his rifle against his shoulder and aimed the weapon at a sorcerer standing to Zachary’s right. “And I’m following them.”
“You and your team weren’t enough back in the Thirty-Day War. What makes you think you’ll be enough this time?” Zachary asked.
Patrick eyed the way Zachary’s mageglobes scattered in a line to counter his own. “Because we’re fucking stubborn.”
Patrick let loose the strike spell at the same time Zachary released his. The two spells collided, the resulting explosion making Patrick shield his eyes from the light and dig his feet into the muddy ground. The blowback ran through his nerves, the strike spell tearing through Zachary’s in a way that canceled each other out but still sent chunks of earth high into the sky. The stone wall to his right broke apart, ancient pieces of rock hurtling into the air.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to destroy the heritage site?” Keith said.
“That was more of a suggestion,” Patrick replied.
