“Who would’ve thought you’d be so helpful without running poor Pattycakes through a plethora of tasks?” Hermes drawled.
Baba Yaga shot him an irritated look. “I know his place.”
“It’s good you know yours.”
Hermes disappeared through the veil, getting the last word in because he was a dick like that. Patrick rolled his eyes.
“Thank you for your help in the Catacombs,” Patrick said, because Baba Yaga wasn’t the fae, and it was only polite to acknowledge the immortal’s help since she hadn’t tried to eat him.
Mostly.
“Take thief out of my shop,” she grumbled.
“I’m not a thief,” Wade protested from behind a different display of potions, hands moving suspiciously.
“Funny how she didn’t specify who and you still spoke up,” Jono said.
Wade scowled at them and headed for the door. “I’m getting some bread. All the bread. And I’m not sharing.”
Jono stroked his hand down Patrick’s arm, linking their fingers together, and tugged him toward the door. “Come on. We have a fight to prepare for.”
Patrick rubbed at one eye, trying to get the dust out as he followed after Jono, not looking forward to the day ahead.
22
Jono would have much rather hada lie-in with Patrick that morning after a shitty night chasing him through Paris rather than going their separate ways because of politics. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been an option.
“Your contact was a traitor,” Jono said flatly.
Mireille blinked at him over her closed laptop on the dining room table. “So your dire accused over the phone.”
“So my co-leader had to deal with in the fucking Catacombsalone.”
“You knew the risk. I am sorry for your loss—”
“What loss? I never said Patrick was dead.”
Mireille hesitated, but Jono couldn’t smell fear on her, just confusion. “He went below.”
“Patrick is a mage. He got out of there just fine.” Jono’s jaw twitched. “No thanks to you.”
“There was no deceit in our actions. You asked for a guide. We reached out to the most well-known group of cataphiles that reside in Paris to get you one. We’ve helped them find lost members in the past, before the Catacombs closed. They owed us, and we asked that they send you someone who was familiar with the tunnels.” Mireille shook her head, never looking away from Jono. “We didn’t know of the guide’s allegiance.”
She smelled like truth and nothing else—no magic, no lies. Mireille’s scent was clean in a way Estelle’s never was and Cressida’s hadn’t been. Fenrir only confirmed her stance with an indifferent growl that echoed in the back of Jono’s mind.
Not a threat, the god said.
That didn’t make the Paris god pack allies.
“That’s a shit apology,” Jono said.
Mireille’s wolf-bright blue eyes narrowed. “We have nothing to apologize for.”
“Are we correct in assuming only the Orthodox Church of the Dead have been roaming the Catacombs lately?” Sage asked, steering the conversation away from an argument.
She’d made Rami uncomfortable when they’d arrived at the Paris god pack’s home that morning, having left her fae necklace at Nadine’s. Sage clearly gave off the scent of a werecreature, just not any kind the Paris god pack were used to crossing.
“We informed you of that the other night,” Gaspard said as he entered the dining room, sipping at some red wine.
