“Patrick—”
Patrick shook his head sharply, cutting Wade off. Wade snapped his mouth shut, chewing on his bottom lip as he stared at Patrick. He let Patrick go and stayed close, knowing better than to speak about pack things in public, especially in front of the enemy. Wade was practically vibrating from tension though, and Patrick wanted badly to calm him down, but he didn’t have the time.
Bryson led them to the corner table, and Patrick took a quick head count, coming up with twelve, including Jono’s terrible past taste in men. All but one of the seats were taken at a table, and no one seemed inclined to offer them any. Bryson claimed that seat, trying to look unconcerned, but the stiff way he held himself proved it was a lie.
The people who mattered for these negotiations sat on the couch in the recessed golden space, and Patrick’s gaze went immediately to the woman who carried a hint of the hells to his magic.
Cressida Moore was a slim woman with a riot of blonde curls that fell to her shoulders and framed a delicately featured face. Her impossibly wolf-bright blue eyes dominated her face, ringed by false eyelashes, thick eyeliner, and eyeshadow that matched the silky rose-gold tank top she wore.
Whatever skin she wore, what lived in her soul wasn’t human. Patrick’s magic was sounding a warning that lifted the hair on the back of his neck, and he wanted desperately to get his pack out of there. He’d faced hunters who carried demons in their souls many times before, but none of them had ever made him feel like running away was the only option. All Patrick could think of was Shakespeare’s apt warning as they came to a stop near the group.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
The man sitting beside Cressida on the couch was only a werecreature. Taller than her even while sitting down, his brown hair was slicked back, face clean-shaven, and he dressed about ten years younger than he looked.
“You’ve some bollocks on you to come crawling back to London, Jonothon,” Finley Harris said. His accent was a more refined version of Jono’s, but still a far cry from upper class speech.
“Do you see me crawling?” Jono said coolly.
Finley reached for his drink, the cut crystal glass filled with a deep amber liquid. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
“I’m here as the alpha of the New York City god pack. Under pack law, you’re obligated to negotiate with me as equals.”
Finley threw back his head and laughed, causing a wave of chuckles to echo in the pack members around him. “Bollocks. You’ve never been my equal.”
“You’re right,” Patrick said. “He’s always been better than you.”
Finley’s laughter cut off, and he set his glass back on the table with a heavy smack. “What the fuck do you think you know about pack when you aren’t part of our community?”
“I’m the co-leader of ours, so let’s go with everything that matters.”
“How adorable,” Cressida drawled, tapping one manicured nail against the edge of her cocktail glass. “The human thinks he’s one of us.”
More laughter made Patrick want to clench his hands into fists, but he didn’t give in to the urge. Physical tells were as much a giveaway as scent in a situation like this, and he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were pissing him off.
Cressida leaned forward, the tank top she wore shifting to show off more of her ample cleavage. She smiled, teeth sharp in her mouth. “I hear you have magic, which means you can never be part of our community, much less pack.”
“Do I smell like I have magic?” Patrick asked.
“Bryson saw you at the WSA today. You were walking with a witch.”
Bryson’s nose was way off if he thought Nadine was a witch. “Not everyone who works at a place like that is a magic user.”
“You don’t work there at all.”
Patrick shrugged, never taking his eyes off her. “I thought that was obvious?”
“I called your dire on behalf of my alphas for a parley over pass-through rights. You’re obligated under pack law to come to the table and speak. That holds true no matter what continent you stand on,” Sage said.
“That holds true for arealpack, which you aren’t,” Finley said.
“The packs under our protection in New York City say otherwise, as does the Chicago god pack and the San Francisco god pack. The Night Courts and the fae in New York acknowledge our standing. That’s more than enough validation by anyone’s count,” Jono stated flatly. “More than the support I hear you’ve lost lately, yeah?”
Finley scowled at them, unable to deny that fact. Sage’s research had come up with a lot of London gossip concerning the werecreature community here. Marek had trawled PreterWorld posts for hints of discord that Sage had run with by doing a deep dive into media articles. What they’d uncovered didn’t paint a pretty picture—and the probable cause of the mess here in London was staring right at Patrick with the eyes of a god pack alpha werecreature and the soul of a demon.
“My understanding is you fled our country because you couldn’t be arsed to listen to any of the alphas heading up the packs in London,” Cressida said.
“There was only one pack I should’ve belonged to. Neither Jessamine nor Finley allowed me to join the London god pack. That’s not on me, but on them.”
