Steadfast and sure, and willing to put her life on the line for his. Sage was everything one could want in a dire, Jono just didn’t want to ever lose her.
He reached across the counter and she leaned closer, making it easier for Jono to drag his hand and wrist over her throat, scent-marking her.
A familiar trio of heartbeats echoed in his ears, getting louder. Jono looked over at the entrance to the bar, watching as Emma, Leon, and Marek came inside out of the rain.
“Was that Nicholas we saw leaving just now?” Emma demanded.
“I kicked him out,” Jono said.
Leon helped Emma out of her heavy winter coat as Marek set aside their umbrellas. Leon raised an eyebrow. “He looked in one piece.”
“Which is an absolute shame,” Sage said.
Marek came over and gave her a kiss in greeting. “Hey.”
Sage smiled at him. “Hey, yourself.”
Jono took in his friends, always pleased when everyone could get together, despite the circumstances trying to keep them all apart. Straightening up, he turned and grabbed bottles off the shelves in preparation of making everyone their preferred drink.
Conversations about the New York City god pack always went down better with alcohol.
5
Patrick rubbedhis gloved hands together, absently casting a warming charm into the fabric. His arms and torso were warm, courtesy of the charms embedded in his leather jacket. The black sweater he wore beneath it added an extra layer of warmth, but it was the rest of him that was cold as he waited outside the restaurant.
The storm that had churned over New York for the past few days seemed to have let up for early Sunday evening. The clouds hadn’t disappeared, and the weather app on his phone said rain was due to return in a few hours. Having grown up in Salem for eight years before living in Washington, DC, Patrick was used to the cold; he just didn’t like it.
Citizens across all five boroughs had called in Sluagh sightings to the authorities, but most of those had been tricks of the eye. That didn’t mean the restless dead weren’t galloping through the clouds up above, waiting to strike at the unsuspecting. The tightness in Patrick’s shoulders hadn’t eased since the moment he’d stepped outside the office earlier.
Squinting at the street, he eyed the cars and taxis driving past the restaurant with the hope that one of them held his old teammates. The Horseshoe was a gastropub in the East Village known for its burgers and beers and had been the agreed-upon meeting place for dinner before Patrick took everyone back to Tempest for drinks with Jono and Emma’s pack. The Horseshoe wasn’t high-end by any means, and wouldn’t dent his bank account too badly.
A taxi braked to a stop in front of the restaurant and two passengers got out. Patrick didn’t fight the smile that tugged at his mouth.
“Fucking hell, Razzle Dazzle,” Sergeant Keith Pearson said with a mad cackle as he skirted between two parked cars to grab Patrick into a back-slapping hug. “Here I thought you’d be in a damn suit. Aren’t you G-men supposed to wear suits?”
“That’s the FBI, Chatterbox,” Patrick replied, pounding him on the back just as hard. “Good to see you.”
Keith pulled back, giving Patrick that familiar toothy grin, brown eyes narrowed against the strong wind. The lower half of his face was less tanned than the rest of it, alluding to a thick beard having been recently shaved off. His brown hair was tucked under a beanie, the length a little longer than regulations allowed.
“Only me and Gerard could make it up. All the rest of the guys are taking a few days with their families before they come out to meet us.”
Patrick arched an eyebrow at that little update, looking over Keith’s shoulder at his old team captain. “By all, does Chatterbox mean Arthur and Darren, or your entire current team?”
Captain Gerard Breckenridge held up a white box with a sticker slapped on top that saidSin & Cakesin cursive script. “Entire current team. Figured I’d break that news to you with a care package.”
Patrick elbowed Keith out of the way. “Are those from Sienna?”
“My girl flew out to meet us in DC. Apparently, she’s got a baker friend who let her make a batch of Gold Rush cookies in their bakery. She said you had to share,” Keith told him.
“Fuck you, she said no such thing.” Patrick took the offered box with quick hands. “Thanks, Smooth Dog.”
Gerard drew him into a hard hug, careful of the box of cookies baked with West Coast love. “You’re a civilian now. Thought you’d forget about that name.”
“Not even when I’m dead.”
Patrick drew back, taking in his former captain. The half-fae officer looked mostly human if one ignored the gently tapered points of his ears peeking out from light brown hair and his otherworldly silver eyes. Gerard was the kind of handsome people always looked twice at, and then again for good measure. He was a beautiful man who could command a room simply by stepping inside it, and who had commanded their team with an iron will Patrick had been more than willing to be bound by when part of the Hellraisers.
“Your hair isn’t regulation,” Patrick mused. “Leave get granted that quick?”
