“Hey,” Patrick said, gaze sweeping the table. He was still in the suit he’d worn to his meeting, dagger secured to his belt at his lower back.
Gaspard blinked lazily at them. “America certainly does things backward by allowing magic users into packs.”
Jono shouldn’t have been surprised they’d done their due diligence, though he wondered who in the London god pack had told them. “We’ll abide by hospitality.”
“Good.” Mireille’s gaze slid toward Wade before returning to him. “We have decided you may have pass-through rights to our city, but keep out of our politics.”
“Might be a little hard to do,” Patrick said evenly. “I understand your preternatural community here has a missing-person problem. And by person, I mean a lot.”
The news had been surprising for all of a moment to Jono when Patrick and Nadine had returned from their long meeting with their French counterparts earlier in the evening. But then, considering the sacrifices Ethan always needed to power his spells, it seemed likely Ilya would need the same. Murder was overlooked in certain communities more than others.
Authorities didn’t care as much for those with a preternatural bent as they did mundane humans, and that held true no matter the country. Jono had lived it in two where he experienced that sort of discrimination, and now it seemed he could add France to the mix. Distrust between government authority and communities built by those who weren’t always welcomed in society rarely faded away.
Jono met Mireille’s gaze over her wineglass and stayed sat. “We’re in Paris hunting a necromancer. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Bloke calls himself the Patriarch of Souls to the Orthodox Church of the Dead.”
The pack scent drifting on the night air became sharp with bitter fear. Jono took a sip of wine to clear the taste of it from the back of his throat.
“Since when do wolves hunt necromancers?” Gaspard asked.
“I’m not a wolf,” Sage said as she delicately cut into the steak she’d served herself. She didn’t statewhatshe was and let their curiosity live a little longer.
“It’s my job,” Patrick said simply. “To take cases like these.”
Gaspard snorted. “You are not French. This is not your concern.”
“I’m still pack, and it’s a threat to mine. So.” Patrick reached for the platter of steaks and speared one with his fork, bringing it to his plate. “The French Ministry of Magical Affairs has their own reports, but they won’t contain everything. You’re the alphas of the Paris god pack. Whatever rumors are running through this city about a threat like that, I’m betting you know some of the underlying truth.”
“We aren’t here for your territory. All we’re asking for is a bit of help,” Jono said.
Silence settled over the dinner party for a long few minutes. Jono focused on eating, taking his time like everyone else because the French never rushed when it came to food. Only Wade was eating as if he didn’t know when his next meal would be, but Jono didn’t tell him to slow down.
“People have gone missing from the packs under our protection. We have not been able to track the one doing the murdering,” Gaspard finally said when the meat was half-gone on all the platters and the roasted potatoes had disappeared into Wade’s stomach.
“So you’ve found bodies?” Patrick asked.
“No.” Gaspard’s mouth twisted. “But we know that when our kind goes missing like this, in such numbers, we will not get them back.”
“What about your city’s graveyards? The Catacombs? Any disturbances there?”
Mireille shattered her wineglass with her grip. She stared at the wine spreading over the wooden tabletop and the glass shards clinging to her wet fingers. “Merde.”
Gaspard plucked the cloth napkin off his lap and used it to wipe her hand clean. When he finished, he pressed his lips to her palm for a lingering kiss. Mireille graced him with a smile that spoke of fondness without the cruelty Jono always saw in Estelle.
Mireille looked across the table at them, wolf-bright eyes practically glowing in the low light. “The Catacombs have been closed since winter. The government will not confirm it, but there issomethingthat lives within the Mines of Paris. Even the cataphiles will no longer venture below. We’ve banned all packs from going near the known entrances.”
Jono shared alookwith Patrick, having a whole, silent conversation with his lover in the span of seconds.
Patrick put down his knife. “We need to get into the Catacombs.”
20
“They said meether here at 1700,” Patrick said, squinting down the street. It was still light out, sunset hours away at this time of the year. “She’s late.”
“By two minutes. Give it a little longer,” Jono said.
Patrick scowled, wanting to be on the move already. They’d been in Paris two days, summer solstice was tomorrow, and they still had no new leads. Getting the French Ministry of Magical Affairs to take the situation seriously when the United States couldn’t mention the Morrígan’s staff had resulted in a log jam of bureaucracy that had resulted in not much getting done outside meetings.
Nadine and Patrick had been relegated to the sidelines in those meetings. The senior agents Director Franklin had assigned to the case were the ones handling communications with their French counterparts. The French government knew Ilya was a problem and a threat, but they didn’t think he was in Paris. No one knew where the necromancer was, and that meant manpower to take him into custody was grounded until solid intelligence came through on a location.
