“What the bloody fuck happened?” Jono asked.
“The cataphile was one of Peklabog’s worshippers. Either that, or the Paris god pack was fucking with us,” Patrick said.
Hermes raised his hand, Lisette’s blood-spattered necklace hanging from one finger. Patrick was surprised it was still in one piece. “She was his worshipper. This is one of his emblems.”
“I’ll call their dire when we get back to Nadine’s,” Sage said, practically biting out the words.
Jono stroked his thumbs over Patrick’s cheeks, studying him. “I felt your panic.”
Patrick winced. “Sorry. Drekavacs cornered us in the Catacombs. I was limited in the spells I could use. Didn’t want to risk bringing a street down on top of me.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Lisette got the drop on me. Whacked me upside the head with a leg bone. Baba Yaga got me out of there, and Hermes got rid of the concussion.”
Hermes smirked at Jono. “Need him in fighting form.”
“Fuck off,” Jono growled.
Wade, who’d been wandering the shop unsupervised and probably had pockets filled with potions at this rate, sidled back over to them. “Is there a bakery nearby? I smelled bread on the street.”
Patrick frowned. “What time is it?”
“Close to five in the morning,” Sage said.
Patrick blinked, staring up into Jono’s eyes. “Summer solstice.”
Jono nodded grimly and let him go. “What now?”
Patrick looked around at his pack and realized there was only one thing they could do. “We fight.”
“Peklabog will not be easy adversary,” Baba Yaga said as she floated back over to them, whacking Wade across the knuckles with her broom. “Is not yours.”
Wade yanked his hand away from a display of potions in shiny crystal bottles. “Ow! I was only looking.”
Baba Yaga snorted, looking down on them from the height of her mortar made out of stolen bones. “Church filled Catacombs with prayers. Dead will rise. Soon.”
“Are you sure?” Patrick asked.
“Think I not know dead?”
“That’s not what I meant. If Ilya is starting the spell now, then we’re out of time to warn people.”
Baba Yaga shrugged. “Can still fight. Have Srecha’s blessing,da? Do not waste.”
Patrick’s left hand twitched, the line of heat across his palm still sore from dragging himself through tight tunnels. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Baba Yaga let the end of her pestle hit the floor, leaning forward to balance her weight on the other end. She stared at him with eyes the color of freshly turned earth, a hunger in them that made Patrick want to reach for his dagger.
“Mortals can’t hold staff without proper magic. Magic you not have.”
“You mean my affinity for combat magic won’t be enough?”
“Think I hunger, mortal? Staff aches with it. Use what Srecha give you, but can use only once.”
“Like a wish?” Sage asked.
Baba Yaga straightened up, humming thoughtfully as the mortar swayed a little in the air. “The staff wants. You must want more.”
