“Good. We can shove it down Estelle and Youssef’s throats when we get home,” she said.
Jono grimaced. They needed the support, but after learning what they had about hunters and demons in London, he wasn’t sure what they would return to in New York City. He didn’t know if Estelle and Youssef were willing to do what Cressida had and accept demons into their souls—or if they would be the only ones.
An entire god pack of werecreatures sharing their souls with demons wasn’t going to be easy to defeat if those two went down that road.
“We’ll see how things go.”
Sage reached up to settle her fingertips against the side of his throat, pressing against his pulse. “One step at a time.”
Jono touched his own wrist to her throat, pressing the pack scent into her skin. Sage hummed happily, their quiet moment interrupted when Wade came into the kitchen carrying Fatima like a furry baby.
“No one told me we had any bread left,” Wade complained.
Fatima stopped chewing on the baguette and held it up to him between her paws. Wade gave her an adoring look before taking the offered bite.
“First pegasi and now psychopomps. Maybe we should get him a dog,” Sage mused.
Jono winced. “Please don’t give him any ideas.”
Wade narrowed his eyes at them. “Hey! I’d be a great pet owner!”
“The state of your apartment and latest hoard says otherwise.”
“What’s his hoard?” Spencer asked.
“Nothing,” Wade muttered.
“Right now? Lucky cat figurines,” Jono said.
“They’remine.”
Spencer snorted into his coffee. “You just said your hoard was nothing, and now it’s something?”
Wade reached out lightning-quick to grab Spencer’s coffee cup before darting out of hand-smacking range. “Fatima and I are going to enjoy our bread and coffee on the balcony. None of you are invited.”
“Hey!” Spencer called after him. “That’s mine! They’rebothmine!”
“I can’t hear you over how loudly Fatima is purring because she likes me best,” Wade singsonged.
Spencer stared after him for a moment before turning to give Jono an incredulous look.
Jono just shrugged. “Dragons, mate. What can you do but feed them?”
* * *
Jono foundPatrick lying on their bed in the guest bedroom after supper, staring at the ceiling. The sun was low on the horizon, already hidden behind the surrounding buildings. Jono went to the windows overlooking the flat’s balcony and gently closed the curtains, shutting out the lit-up skyline of Paris.
Electricity was up and running for the entire city now, but the stench of death still hung on the air. Millions of bones and bodies were piled up on the streets, but the general consensus from officials was that millions more weremissing. The United States government was of the opinion Ilya had somehow managed to flee with the Morrígan’s staffandan army of the undead.
Honestly, it was the stuff nightmares were made of.
That still left Paris having to deal with reinterning its dead, a process their pack wasn’t going to stick around and watch.
“You didn’t eat much,” Jono said, coming to stand at the foot of the bed.
Patrick didn’t move, didn’t even look at him. “I wasn’t hungry.”
He was still in the suit he’d worn for work, a charcoal-gray one this time. His dagger and sheath had been removed, and both now hung off the headboard. Jono gently undid the laces of Patrick’s oxfords before slipping off his shoes and socks.
