“The Sluagh went after the changeling. The Wild Hunt?” Patrick shrugged, looking over at Jono. “You said the lead rider was a woman looking for a girl.”
Tiarnán frowned. “You must be mistaken. The Wild Hunt does not have a female leader. It is not their role.”
“Way to discriminate. Don’t ever say that around Sage.”
“The lead rider was a woman. Dead, but a woman, and the rest of the Wild Hunt followed her orders,” Jono said.
“You misunderstand me. The Wild Hunt is led by a god, and Gwyn ap Nudd would never relinquish his position to another.”
Patrick shared a look with Jono, shoving down the spark of hot anger that cut through him. His ability to leash his anger was shit after yesterday—last week—however fucking long time had passed since he’d learned of Gerard’s betrayal. Learning yet more gods were circling was enough to make him need a drink, preferably several.
“What would make him give up leading the Wild Hunt?” Patrick asked.
Tiarnán gripped the knob of his cane with both hands, looking old rather than timeless for a single second, all it took for Patrick to blink.
“Nothing,” Tiarnán said. “The Wild Hunt has always belonged to him. It did before this land was stolen, and it will be long after it falls. Death has existed always, and so has he.”
Patrick shook his head and turned on his feet. “Death needs to fuck off in all its many aspects.”
Patrick left the conference room, ignoring the curious stares from some of the other fae they passed on their way out. He hadn’t thought they’d get the answers they needed out of Tiarnán, but at least they’d gotten something. The bargain between them only counted for so much, but he’d take the hint and the warning Tiarnán had offered for what they were.
“I don’t think he cares for Brigid,” Jono said on the elevator ride back down to the lobby.
Patrick would’ve banged the back of his head against the wood paneling of the elevator car, except Jono casually grabbed him by the jacket and hauled him close. Patrick rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, letting Jono steal a kiss.
Jono let go of the leather and smoothed it out. “Off to Em’s?”
“Yeah.”
Today was December seventeenth. They had four days left to find Órlaith before winter solstice rolled around. Winter solstice would hit on December twenty-first, but all the back-and-forth across the veil was cutting into their search time. Patrick honestly didn’t know where to start except for the one place he didn’t want to.
Turned out, he didn’t get a choice.
They stepped out of the elevator and turned toward the exit. The second Patrick got eyes on who stood between them and the guarded glass doors to the building, he rocked to a halt, causing Jono to nearly run into him. Jono grabbed him by the shoulder and gently steered him forward so they weren’t in the way of anyone else coming off the elevator.
“Can’t ignore him forever,” Jono said quietly.
“If we didn’t have a mission, you bet your fucking ass I could,” Patrick muttered.
The simmering anger he’d let go of last night beneath Jono’s touch came roaring back in full force, making his hands shake. Patrick clenched them into fists as they headed to where Gerard waited in the lobby, dressed for winter but carrying himself as if he were waiting for a war to start.
He wouldn’t be wrong.
“We need to talk,” Gerard said in a quiet, tired voice once Patrick stood in front of him.
“Not here,” Patrick retorted.
“I wasn’t going to suggest here. The Lord of Ivy and Gold knows every word spoken within these walls.”
Gerard turned on his heel, heading for the exit, acting as if he fully expected Patrick to follow him. Patrick was angry enough—and petty enough right now—that he half thought about heading for the door that led to the parking garage even though they hadn’t driven here. They’d left their car at Emma’s while past the veil to avoid street cleaning tickets.
Jono shook his head, and Patrick knew he wouldn’t be allowed to ignore this situation.
They stepped outside into the cold winter air, gray slush shifting around Patrick’s boots. The snow plows had come through last night despite the curfew, and the streets downtown were cleared, but small snow piles had built up along the curb. The sidewalk looked icy, and no one was moving very quickly.
Patrick tugged his beanie down over his ears and squinted against the cold wind that made his lungs hurt. He should’ve worn a scarf. Gerard hailed a taxi, the yellow vehicle pulling over and turning the light off on its sign to indicate the driver now had passengers.
Jono and Patrick climbed into the back seat while Gerard took the front, telling the driver “Rockefeller Center.”
