No one answered him, and he had the sinking feeling someone had run off with it during the chaos of the ambush. Before panic could really set in, Cressida screamed, the sound shrill and ugly before growing deep and furious. A roar filled the wing of Smithfield Market, reminding Patrick of a waterfall thundering over the side of a cliff.
Spencer’s magic exploded around Cressida like a star gone nova, but it wasn’t bright enough to block out the swirling darkness that wrenched itself free of her body. The shapeless shadow streaked away from her like smoke, and the inhuman deepness of her voice shaded back to its normal tone.
“Andras!” Cressida screamed, sounding scared and mournful in a way Patrick didn’t expect. “Don’t leave me!”
Spencer’s magic folded around her, bearing Cressida’s limp body to the ground. The god pack alpha no longer fought the magical bindings holding her in place, face wet with tears, more in shock than anything else. What werecreatures remained in Smithfield Market fled, not a single one of them attempting to save their alpha.
Spencer didn’t look like he was in any condition to put to rest the handful of zombies left, but Lucien’s Night Court were handling that threat just fine. Patrick did a quick head count, coming up with the same number of vampires as when they’d arrived. His pack was still standing, too many buyers were dead, and those who had survived had already fled the scene or were in the process of doing so.
Patrick let them go. No point in chasing after them when their entire reason for coming to London wasn’t anywhere to be found.
“Fuck,” Patrick ground out. “Fuck.”
Nadine drew down her shields, hauling Spencer to his feet. He was white-faced, eyes like holes in his head, but at least he was conscious. Fatima stalked forward to sit on Cressida’s chest, staring down at her with eyes filled with veil mist in their depths. Cressida jerked before going limp, head lolling from unconsciousness.
“We need to get out of here,” Nadine said, violet light playing over her face from her mageglobe.
Jono stepped closer to Patrick, his eyes gone back to their normal wolf-bright blue. Sage stood in the midst of broken chairs and bodies while Lucien and his Night Court went about ensuring no one on the ground was left alive.
“What about the authorities?” Patrick asked.
“I’ll call Gael, but we aren’t staying here. The United States government can’t be caught red-handed executing a mission behind an ally’s back inside their borders.”
Patrick wanted to punch something. “We can’t go to the hotel like this.”
Nadine hauled Spencer with her. “We’ll go to Lucien’s.”
“None of you are welcome,” Lucien called out irritably.
“Tough shit.”
Jono went to where Cressida lay and grabbed her shoulder with his teeth. Fatima latched her claws into Cressida’s chest, refusing to move, the psychopomp’s strangely colored eyes riveted on the werewolf’s slack face. Jono dragged her toward the exit, not careful in the least.
Patrick cast a slew of look-away wards, letting his magic spin around all of them as they fled Smithfield Market, the Morrígan’s staff having slipped through their fingers, nowhere to be found.
17
“I think she’s waking up,”Wade said.
Órlaith, seated in the front passenger seat, didn’t bother looking over her shoulder at their temporary prisoner. “Cressida is not waking up.”
“She twitched.”
“She’s unconscious, Wade,” Jono said, keeping both hands on the steering wheel. “Eat your chip butty.”
“I’ll eat my chip butty because Ilikeit, not because you told me to.”
Jono glanced at the rearview mirror in time to see Wade take a large bite out of the road trip snack he’d insisted on bringing along, still side-eyeing Cressida. Sage sat in the back seat between Cressida and Wade, hands clasped in her lap and appearing serene. Jono couldn’t smell her, not with the fae pendant she wore, but she hadn’t been thrilled about delivering Cressida back to her pack rather than the police or the WSA.
Cressida sat slumped against the side door, unconscious from whatever spell Órlaith had cast on her when the Summer Lady arrived that morning. Cressida’s hands were bound behind her back with a set of metal cuffs Órlaith had set with a binding spell that would prevent her from shifting and keep her preternatural strength in check.
Cressida’s shoulder and clothes were a bloody mess from Jono’s teeth, though the wound itself was long since healed. She was pale, her blonde curls a tangled mess. She seemed to have aged over the course of hours, face ravaged by the loss of the demon she had carried in her soul. Jono didn’t know if that was a byproduct of possession or not. He’d meant to ask Spencer, but they’d left the mage asleep on Lucien’s sofa with Fatima curled on his chest, still recuperating from his efforts at Smithfield Market.
Last night had been a shitshow. They’d lost the Morrígan’s staff and didn’t know who’d run off with it. After holing up at Lucien’s flat to clean up and change clothes, Patrick and Nadine had been summoned to the WSA headquarters in the middle of the night. Jono didn’t envy them having to explain their actions and face the consequences of lying to their country’s allies.
Lucien had grudgingly let them stay at his flat until Órlaith showed up midmorning. Cressida had been a handful until the Summer Lady arrived. Jono had used that time to contact the London god pack. Finley hadn’t been thrilled when Jono demanded a meeting after announcing Cressida was his pack’s prisoner. Finley had promised a fight when all Jono wanted was a chat, which was why Órlaith was coming along and Wade had been given full permission to shift mass if things went tits up.
They might not have had any mages with them for this meeting, but Órlaith was a demi-goddess in her own right, and she let that fact be known when they pulled into the long drive of the country house in Farningham. Jono could smell the werecreatures in the home and on the grounds, but all their righteous anger was suddenly drowned out by the wave of power that rippled away from Órlaith as she got out of the car.
