Órlaith smiled at him, eyes bright with a fondness Patrick didn’t think he deserved, not after what Ethan had put her through over winter. “We’re in England, therefore, we drink tea.”
“I’m American. We tossed it into the harbor.”
“Heathen,” Hermes coughed under his breath.
Patrick flipped him off. “Fuck off.”
Órlaith shot them both a quelling look that seemed to channel her grandmother enough that Hermes kept his mouth shut. Patrick followed her into a palatial office that could’ve doubled as a throne room if someone—Wade—stole the pair of seats out of Buckingham Palace. Thankfully, the Staterooms weren’t open to tour yet.
“How was your flight?” Patrick asked.
Órlaith shrugged. “It was fine. I brought what you requested over with me.”
She went to sit on the love seat by the windows overlooking Kensington Gardens. The low table there was set for tea, and a rosewood box sat near the teapot. A platter of cookies and one of small sandwiches were arranged within arm’s reach.
“I hope you didn’t declare it for Customs,” Patrick said as he took a seat beside her. Hermes sprawled on the armchair opposite them, slinging one leg over the armrest.
“I arrived through diplomatic channels.”
“Handy.”
“I hear Lucien asked for a similar sort of protection.”
Patrick made a face. “The government agreed to the bargain.”
“Compromise is never easy, but needed in a situation like this. We all do what we must.”
“Patrick knows all about our needs,” Hermes drawled.
Patrick glared at the messenger god, watching as the centuries-old clothing melted away into the modern-day outfit Hermes usually preferred—ripped jeans, a well-worn band T-shirt, and a battered pair of Doc Martens.
Órlaith reached for the teapot and poured out three cups, doctoring hers with milk and sugar. Patrick did the same, breathing in the scent of Earl Grey. It wasn’t coffee, but it would do. Hermes twirled his finger in the air and his teacup rose off the table and floated to him. He plucked it out of the air and sat up far enough to sip at it.
“Hospitality?” Patrick asked.
“Not for you.” Órlaith smiled, lips curving up without any of the malice Patrick was used to seeing in some of her people’s faces. “Never for you.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Cú Chulainn is rarely wrong about the people who fight beside him. You and yours have already proven your loyalty. We would not have the alliance with you if that wasn’t the case.”
Patrick knew better than to saythank youto the fae, even one who would one day marry his friend. He inclined his head in a silent acknowledgment of her statement instead. “So what did you bring me?”
“Something to save your ass since you can’t do it yourself,” Hermes said, stealing a cookie off the platter and eating it in two bites.
Órlaith rolled her eyes while the other god pretended not to see. “Ignore him.”
“I’ve tried. He’s like a cockroach that won’t go away,” Patrick said.
Órlaith laughed. “True.”
“I’m just here to ensure you do your job, Pattycakes,” Hermes said.
Patrick flipped him off. “I don’t need your help for that.”
“Seems like you do. I hear the Orthodox Church of the Dead wants the Morrígan’s staff. Their Patriarch of Souls has loud prayers.”
Patrick frowned. “Do they pray to you?”
