They stayed like that for a few more seconds, soaking in the nearness of each other even as the snow continued to fall. The sound of the sea crashing below was a dull roar in his ears as Jono breathed in Patrick’s scent.
Fingers stroked over his back, and warmth bloomed at the touch, pushing through his clothes and down to his skin, chasing away the cold that had numbed his body well before they made it to the western shores of Ireland. When Patrick pulled away, pale blue magic crackled at his fingertips.
Between Patrick and William Desmond, the Hellraisers’ sorcerer from the Caster Corps, everyone in their group once again had their clothes charmed for heat against the freezing winter weather they’d found themselves in.
Sage dipped her chin behind the high collar of her wool coat and rubbed her gloved hands together. “Now what?”
The Wild Hunt had yet to return to the sky and didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. Patrick trekked back over to Jono after finishing up the last charm on a soldier’s clothes. Everyone was dressed for winter in a city, not flying through the elements and ending up on what could have passed as the edge of the world.
“We ask the Cailleach Bheur for her help,” Gerard said.
“Are you going to summon her how you summoned the Wild Hunt back in Central Park?” Keith asked.
“Gods aren’t like demons. You don’t summon them,” Patrick replied.
“I don’t know about that. Quite a few are on par with demons in my book,” Jono said.
Gerard pointed his spear at the cliff jutting out to sea to the south of them, with the tower situated there half-obscured by drifting sea fog. “Ceann na Caillíis that way.”
Keith made a face. “Kin-what now?”
“The Hag’s Head.”
Gerard led the way, but Jono stayed with Patrick as the group formed a single-file line. They took a well-worn path toward their destination, following the cliff’s edge as the storm winds sought to bowl them all over. Jono tasted salt every time he breathed, ocean coating his tongue and the back of his throat.
Patrick marched ahead of him with a sureness to his stride that Jono attributed to his military career with the Mage Corps. It was the same sureness the other Hellraisers carried themselves with. Sage and Wade walked ahead of Patrick, both of them keeping their balance against the buffeting wind. Their pack was in the middle of the group, with the Hellraisers’ sorcerer taking up the rear. Desmond seemed more than capable of shielding everyone if an attack happened.
Jono looked over his shoulder at the cliff they’d left behind them, seeing the Wild Hunt still burning bright against the snow. He turned back around and found Patrick watching him.
“Think the Dominion Sect knows where we are?” Jono asked.
“I really wouldn’t put it past Medb to reach out to their emissary and warn them. Fae don’t like to lose a game, much less a bargain. Gerard was shitty for days when he lost our poker games in the field.”
The memory made Patrick scowl, but Jono couldn’t smell what he was feeling. Patrick’s shields were locked down tight, and all Jono could really smell was the ocean.
The cliff edge ran parallel to the path, close at times and farther away in other areas. The path was dangerous to traverse in weather like this, even with the low stone wall between them and the rocks below, but they didn’t have a choice.
The Hag’s Head grew larger on the horizon, the stone watchtower rising through the fog with every step they took. Jono’s feet sank into the snow that had accumulated in the area, the soles of his shoes skidding on hidden ice. He caught his balance and wasn’t the only one finding that little surprise underfoot.
The snow seemed thicker somehow on this cliff, falling heavier than it had on the one they’d arrived on. The winter cold was icier, eating through the heat charms that Patrick had layered over his clothes and shoes in a worrisome way. Up ahead, Gerard’s notched spearhead was a beacon of fire, standing out against the gray sky and the falling snow.
When they finally made it to the area in front of the watchtower, the land was more ice than snow, the ground tinted blue, as if they walked on a glacier. Gerard carefully stepped on the ice, using his spear to keep his balance. Patrick followed after Gerard, which meant Jono stepped foot on the ice as well.
Gerard made a hand signal that had the rest of the Hellraisers staying put. Jono caught Sage’s eye and jerked his head to the side. “Come along.”
Sage tucked her hands into her coat pocket and leaned into the wind as she started walking. Wade joined her, unbothered by the cold, and Jono wondered if that was due to the high body temperature that sustained fire dragons. He brushed the thought aside, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and not falling on his arse.
They rounded the watchtower, and the wind picked up with a viciousness that had Jono ducking his head against it. He wrapped an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, steadying him. The cliff stretched out behind the tower for quite a ways before cutting downward to a pair of stone stacks that stood immovable against the storm on a lower section of the cliff.
A figure stood on top of the stone mound on the lip of rocky earth below, hunched over and clutching a staff. The gray cloak they wore fought the wind in a tangle of fabric that snapped behind their curled body. Jono took a deep breath, and beneath the ever-present ocean salt, he smelled the electric, ozone scent of a god.
“Maybe I should’ve waited with the guys,” Wade muttered. Jono heard him easily enough, despite the howling wind coming off the ocean.
“You’re pack. You stay,” Jono said.
“Thought I was grounded?”
“Technically, that still means you stay,” Sage said.
