“I did mention items that had not been put up for show,” Rossiter said with a wide smile as he angled his body toward the staff. “This is one such item. Made for the hands of a goddess, filled with magic that can be yours for a price, the staff is a work of priceless art perfect for any discerning collector. I’ll start the bidding at ten million pounds sterling.”
Lucien raised his number, looking almost bored. “Fifteen million.”
Ilya quickly lifted his own number. “Twenty million.”
“Thirty million,” someone behind them shouted.
“Forty million,” Lucien countered.
Ilya’s voice rang out again. “Fifty million.”
The price kept rising, and Patrick internally winced. Whatever number the staff sold at was going to be astronomical, and when Congress found out, he knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.
The shouts of bid amounts tapered off after a few minutes until it was only Lucien and Ilya calling out their bids. When it reached five hundred million pounds sterling, with no signs of stopping, Patrick thought he was going to crack a tooth from stress.
Turned out Rossiter was ready to do it for him.
“That is more than I actually thought anyone would be willing to pay,” Rossiter said in between bids, momentarily putting a stop to the one-upmanship going on. “Interesting to know this is the only item you both came here for.”
“I have half a billion pounds sterling more to spend,” Lucien said, staring Rossiter down. “Keep going.”
Rossiter smiled in a way that stretched his lips nearly to the sides of his head, like someone had cut through flesh and elongated his mouth. “No, I don’t think so. I think this is one item I’ll keep.”
The werecreatures surrounding the buyers moved, going in for the kill.
Einar shoved Patrick backward, causing his folding chair to tip over. The only reason he didn’t crack his head on the ground was because Spencer caught him. Patrick flailed for a couple of seconds before Spencer hauled them both to their feet amidst the melee that had sprung up around them, spurred by the London god pack’s surprise brutal attack on the auction buyers.
“Motherfucker,” Spencer snarled, a dark green mageglobe burning into existence by his shoulder. Fatima yowled at his feet, guarding his six, tail lashing back and forth.
Einar had put himself between Cressida and Lucien, but going toe-to-toe against a werecreature carrying a demon in her soul was a good way for Einar to end up permanently dead. Carmen had pulled her wooden telescoping aconite rod fromsomewhere—Patrick didn’t want to think about where she’d hidden it—and had put her back to Lucien’s.
“Exorcise the fucking demon,” Patrick snapped as he yanked his dagger free from its sheath.
White heavenly fire burned around the matte-black blade, drawing both Cressida’s and Rossiter’s attention. Rossiter reacted first, yanking the scarf free from his neck to reveal an ugly, rotten line encircling his throat. The smell of gangrenous flesh hit the air, and Patrick almost gagged.
The screams of people dying around them intermingled with the howls of werecreatures, flickering bursts of magic as people defended themselves, and the yells of people urging their compatriots to run.
But there was no running from what Rossiter was, or the alliance he’d formed with the demon riding Cressida’s soul.
Rossiter leaped from the stage into the crowd, landing somewhere behind Patrick. He thought the fae had miscalculated the distance, but when Patrick spun around, he realized that wasn’t true.
Rossiter slammed a man in a white robe to the ground with brutal strength. Kalid’s terrified face stared back at Patrick for just a moment. Then Rossiter punched a fist into Kalid’s back, and the man screamed, the sound cutting off with a gurgle when the fae tore Kalid’s spine out of his body in one gruesome pull.
The line of vertebrae ripped free, taking the skull with it, eyes still in their sockets hanging by thin nerves. Kalid’s skin sheared free from the force of the pull, and what was left of his body fell to the floor, his white robe turned red. Rossiter snapped the spine like a whip as he turned, spraying the undulating crowd of fighters and dead people with blood. Then he reached up with his free hand to grip his hair andpull.
Rotten skin stretched and tore, peeling apart like rancid fruit. Bone cracked and broke as Rossiter removed his head from his body, holding it aloft in his hand, smiling nightmarishly wide as blood stained his suit. Sickly yellow magic slithered down the human spine he carried, covering every inch of stolen bone.
“I will see you into a grave,” Rossiter said as he strode forward, stepping on the dead.
16
“What thefuckis that?”Spencer yelled, tossing a chair out of his way.
“The Dullahan,” Patrick replied.
“Fuck that shit. Give me the dead over creepy-ass fae any day of the week.”
Patrick wrenched open the soulbond, pouring his magic through the connection to reach deep below London for the ley lines running beneath the ancient city. They burned like a live wire to his senses as he manipulated the wild magic into the shape of half a dozen mageglobes.
