“Hey,” Patrick said, drawing attention to himself. “We’re running out of time standing around here arguing. Medb gave us until winter solstice to bring her the Summer Lady in exchange for the Morrígan’s staff. If we don’t make the exchange, then we’re all fucked, because she made the same offer to the Dominion Sect first, and they have Órlaith.”
Gerard shot him a quelling look. “Patrick.”
“What? We don’t have time to play the word games you fae are so fond of. We need to get moving.”
“What does Medb hold over you, Gwyn ap Nudd?” Sage asked suddenly, her voice ringing through the cold air.
High above, the Wild Hunt keened, the sound reminding Jono of a dirge. Wade winced and clamped both hands over his ears, glaring up at where the spirits were in the sky. “All this over some kid?”
“Since when do you speak whatever the hell that was?” Sage asked, turning to look at Wade.
“Uh. Since I ate the not-apple? Maybe before?”
Gwyn ap Nudd’s head jerked around, focusing on Wade with an intensity that had Jono moving to stand between the immortal and the youngest member of his pack. Some of Gerard’s teammates pointed their rifles at the immortal, but Gerard quickly gestured at them to lower their weapons.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t shoot,” Gerard snapped. “Our bullets can’t kill a god.”
“You sure about that?” Keith asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, shit. I think we wasted half a million dollars back at the warehouse.”
“More like a million. Lucien drives a hard bargain,” Sage said
“Kid,” Patrick said as he lowered his dagger, sounding surprised. “Fucking hell, thekid.”
Sage looked over at him. “The Wisteria child?”
“No. The changeling they swapped her out with.”
Gwyn ap Nudd moved, but Jono couldn’t react fast enough to intercept the god when he went after Patrick, despite his own preternatural speed.
Gerard could—and did, like back at Emma’s apartment when they’d faced off against Estelle and Youssef.
Gerard moved, a blur in Jono’s eyesight, his spear coming down between Gwyn ap Nudd’s and where Patrick stood. The clash of weapons made Jono’s ears ring, skin prickling from heat instead of cold for a split second.
“Patrick is undermyprotection,” Gerard snarled through clenched teeth, silver eyes blazing in the dimly lit darkness they stood in. “His soul doesn’t belong to you.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t even belong to me, so get in line,” Patrick muttered.
“Or not,” Jono said testily.
Sage shoved Jono out of the way so she could guard Wade, eyebrows raised in a silent order. Jono left her to it and went to drag Patrick out of reach of Gwyn ap Nudd’s spear, if not his murderous gaze. He shoved Patrick behind him, ignoring the mage’s protest, not taking his eyes off the two immortals.
“Where is she?” Gwyn ap Nudd snarled.
He bore down on Gerard’s weapon with enough strength to cause the tendons in Gerard’s neck to stand out as he pushed back just as hard. The two were at a stalemate that would’ve broken any weapon made by mortal hands.
“Who?” Gerard demanded.
“Mydaughter.”
“Bloody hell,” Jono said, eyes widening. “The changeling is your daughter?”
The tiny fae child the Sluagh had been after when the restless dead had attacked the Wisteria home—probably on Medb’s orders, since she was the one who controlled them. Jono remembered that moment outside Tempest, when the Wild Hunt’s lead rider had confronted him, asking about something he couldn’t answer then, but could now.
“Ble mae hi? Gallwn ei weld yn eich enaid,” he said from memory, Fenrir shaping the words with his tongue.
