Unless the whole plan was to steal his blood, then let him bleed out and die.
But that didn’t sound like Ethan, even if Hades was here to oversee the blood stealing. Hades had stripped him of Persephone’s defenses, had hidden the soulbond as only a god could, and while they were surrounded by demon-backed hunters, Patrick saw no Dominion Sect mercenaries.
They were in Hamilton Heights, in Estelle’s territory, and she’d been making deals with demons well before she’d drifted into Ethan’s orbit. If she was two-timing people, well, that wouldn’t be a surprise.
A searing pain burned across his wrist, and Patrick gritted his teeth. He still couldn’t move, but he could at least no longer feel blood pulsing out of his vein. Cernunnos stood, looking down at Patrick while holding his stolen blood in one hand by magical means.
Those inhuman eyes met Patrick’s, and the smile on the god’s face wasn’t meant to be a comfort. “I know how to stay alive in a world that always changes. I do not fear what comes next.”
With that said, Cernunnos stepped out of the pentagram and walked away, out of sight. Hades remained, watching Patrick instead of the other god.
“Persephone won’t like what you’ve done,” Patrick said.
“Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth,” Hades ordered.
“She chose me.”
“And I chose our daughter. She will understand when this is all over.”
“She’ll probably divorce you.”
The hellfire burned higher, getting hotter, in response to Patrick’s jibe. The heat coming off it was hot enough to burn, even if the flames didn’t catch him on fire. His skin seared with blisters on his arms and beneath his clothes where his body crossed the spell lines, ratcheting up his breathing.
“I need him functioning,” Andras said with Estelle’s voice.
The hellfire flared higher for a few seconds before dampening down to a flicker along the pentagram. Patrick let out a harsh breath, blinking tears out of his eyes, trying not to focus on how much the blisters hurt when they popped.
Patrick watched as Estelle and Andras came into his sight, choosing to stand between the bottom points of the pentagram. Estelle’s eyes were shadows in her face, veins lined black, a willing host for Andras here on Earth.
Patrick thought about saying a prayer in the face of the demon, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good, not without faith to back it. He’d lost faith in all the gods long ago. Praying wouldn’t save him. It never had.
“You should know Jonothon challenged us to a fight. We told him he would never see you again if he chose that route,” Estelle said, Andras an echo in her voice.
“I’ll always come back to him,” Patrick said.
Estelle smiled, the cruel twist of her lips a warning Patrick couldn’t run from. “We’re counting on that. You see, when it comes to a fight between two rival god packs over contested territory, only alphas may step into the challenge ring.”
Patrick’s heart skipped a beat, going suddenly lightheaded despite lying on the ground, because he knew—heknew—what was coming.
In the end, horror tasted a lot like hell.
27
“Everyone is in place,”Sage said, tucking a piece of loose hair behind her ear.
She smelled like pack to Jono—pack, and a vicious sort of rage everyone he’d come into contact with all day had mirrored. Word had spread like wildfire about Patrick’s kidnapping and how Estelle and Andras were holding him hostage. Every pack who’d pledged loyalty to theirs had made it into Manhattan and were now currently scattered in and around the southern half of Central Park alongside the fae.
The packs loyal to Estelle had claimed the northern half, but that didn’t mean all of them stayed there. Sage had received reports of minor skirmishes already on their side of the park, as well as multiple sightings of Krossed Knights, other hunters, and rival packs stalking their positions farther south. Surrounding all of them had been reports of police beginning to block off intersections in a two-block radius around Central Park.
It was barely half past six in the evening, but the curfew had ensured the streets were emptier than usual. Jono, Sage, and Wade stood at the corner of the Seventy-Ninth Street Transverse, along with Gerard and Órlaith. The entrance to the winter-dead park wasn’t barred to them, and Jono was ready to get this fight over with.
“Are we going?” Wade asked, fidgeting in his spot, gold eyes trained on Jono. Red scales pushed through the skin of his throat and the edges of his jaw, his forearms and hands. Wade had quit hiding what he was for this fight, and he was fidgety in a way that spoke of wanting to shift mass.
“Yeah, we’re going,” Jono said.
“Let’s go rip out some throats,” Gerard said, holding theGáe Bulgin one hand. He wasn’t dressed in armor like some of the fae had been, but in a combat uniform that wouldn’t look out of place in the military, despite no identifying patches.
Before they could head into Central Park, a lone police car turned the corner a block away, driving up Fifth Avenue in the wrong direction, lights running but sirens off. It swung diagonally across the lanes and pulled to a stop at the curb near where they stood. Jono was unsurprised to see Casale sitting in the front passenger seat.
