Flashes of black magic skittered over Cressida’s body, and the demon screamed. Patrick’s attention was wrenched away from Spencer’s attempt to carve a demon out of a human soul by the crash of the Dullahan’s bone whip against his shields. The hit vibrated through his magic all the way to his soul, and Patrick swore, readjusting his grip on his dagger.
His shields wavered, fae magic slicing into them over and over again with each strike of the bone whip. Rossiter’s head was still clenched in his left hand, mouth gaping wide and eyes staring right at Patrick. Around them, the auction buyers were still fighting for their lives, but the London god pack was getting pushed onto the defensive. The buyers had retaliated with what innate magic some of them had to save their own lives and, like Carmen, smuggled weaponry.
Then the dead rose.
“Uh, Spencer,” Patrick said, staring past Rossiter at where broken and viciously clawed bodies were jerkily getting to their feet.
Spencer ignored him. Cressida’s screams were guttural in a way that spoke of something else being channeled through her. The sound mingled with the banshee’s scream somewhere in that melee, and Patrick’s ears rang painfully from the noise.
“Spencer, there are motherfucking zombies walking around!”
The other man ignored him, all of Spencer’s focus on trying to exorcise the demon from Cressida’s soul. Spencer’s jaw was clenched together so hard the tendons in his neck stood out, body rigid as he fought against a demon from hell. His entire focus was on breaking apart Cressida’s soul, and he had no attention to spare for the fight around them.
He normally never blocked out the world like this, and that worried Patrick. Right now, Spencer’s focus and power were both a strength and a liability, but Patrick wasn’t going to leave his side.
“Lucien!” Patrick yelled. “Where’s the fucking staff?”
He didn’t get an answer. He didn’t know where Lucien was, but Patrick hoped the bloodsucking bastard was keeping his side of the bargain.
Patrick spun up a mageglobe, filled it with a strike spell, and pushed it through his shields straight at Rossiter’s chest. The Dullahan was thrown back by the force of the explosion, slamming into a pile of folding chairs. He skidded over the floor and crashed into the metal security gate covering a display area. Patrick hoped he was dead, but the sickly magic lining the bone whip never faded, which spoke of shields saving the headless bastard.
Then what was left of Kalid stumbled toward them, body bent over at the hips, robe more red than white, the loose flesh of his face dragging against the floor with every step the zombie took. Behind him came more of the walking dead, but Patrick didn’t know where the fuck the necromancer was. As much as he wanted to do a wide strike spell, that would damage Smithfield Market more than they could afford, and it would put Lucien’s Night Court at risk.
Patrick added another layer to his shields as the zombies converged, powered by the souls of the dead, not deterred by magic in the least. Without shields, they’d tear a man to pieces in minutes, their strength backed by black magic. Fighting zombies was almost like fighting a hydra—you cut down one, but it never stayed dead, and everyone who died was fair game to be raised.
Bodies, skeletons, it didn’t matter. The souls of the dead could animate flesh as well as bones.
Patrick raised his dagger and poured magic into another mageglobe, readying himself to step through his shields and fight them off. He never got the chance.
Hellish power crashed through Smithfield Market with a ferocity that cracked Patrick’s shields, drove Spencer to his knees, and knocked everyone else—whether they were dead or alive—to the ground. The spells surrounding the buildingshattered—and Jono’s furious howl echoed through the air.
Patrick slapped another layer over his wavering shields, drawing more magic from the ley line below through the soulbond. He ignored the zombies getting back to their feet or leg stumps, more concerned about Spencer, who looked so pale the skin on his face seemed translucent.
“Spencer,” Patrick bit out, kneeling to wrap an arm around his friend’s shoulders and offer support.
“I cast youout,” Spencer said, eyes wide and unseeing and filled with an inner cloudiness Patrick didn’t like.
Fatima exploded in light, wispy gray fog filling their immediate area, merging with Spencer’s magic. The pentagram and concentric circle pulsed like a quasar star, so bright it made Patrick’s eyes water. A coldness that reminded Patrick of walking through the veil expanded around them, but it wasn’t enough to stop the zombies.
It certainly wasn’t enough to stop Jono.
He came racing around the corner, larger than every other werecreature still standing, and went for the nearest werewolf, taking them down to the ground and tearing out their throat. Sage was a streak of orange and black behind him, her guttural roar causing more than one werecreature to flee the fight.
Patrick got to his feet as Nadine rounded the corner, half a dozen violet mageglobes trailing in her wake, followed by Wade. She and Patrick locked eyes over the crowd.
“I’ll cover him,” Nadine shouted, pointing at Spencer.
Violet magic rose up around the two of them in a shield more solid than any Patrick could ever make. A gap lingered long enough for Patrick to slip through before sealing shut behind him, keeping Spencer and Fatima safe.
Relatively speaking.
The banshee screamed again before the sound choked off with a gurgle. Patrick nearly tripped over a folding chair in his haste to get eyes on the fae while trying to stay out of reach of Rossiter’s bone whip. The Dullahan was back on his feet, not fazed in the least by the handful of zombies between them.
Patrick twisted out of reach of a zombie walking on its knees, legs having been ripped off, but not its arms. He slammed his dagger through its throat all the way to the hilt. The zombie jerked, spasming on the blade as heavenly magic ravaged what was left of its body. Patrick kicked it in the chest to shove it off his dagger. The zombie fell to the ground and didn’t rise again, the necromancy that had called the spirit forth and the black magic that let it walk cut by his dagger.
Spencer could do it quicker, and in larger numbers, but he was still busy trying to pry the demon from Cressida’s soul.
A furry blur streaked toward him but abruptly changed direction when Carmen appeared beside him, the wooden aconite rod in her hand. The poison it carried in its shape was strong enough to hurt a werecreature, but not to kill it. That’s what the Ka-Bar in her other hand was for.
