“He’s also an SOA special agent. We risk his job if he’s named in any sort of defense.”
“It’s a little late for that,” Danai said, a touch caustically. “He’s been part of your pack for over a year now, and you can’t simply erase that fact or his actions. You can’t afford to be blindsided when his position is revealed. You can only hope it’s revealed on your terms.”
Jono hated that she was right, only because it stripped away what privacy they’d struggled to keep since forming their pack. He knew being god pack meant they would be front and center to deal with the public, but so far Jono had been the face of that. Patrick had stayed working behind the scenes, but it seemed that thin separation was no longer feasible.
Sage passed him a third sandwich, a tiny, tired smile curving her mouth. “Eat. We’ll talk about this at home.”
Jono ate, because there was little else they could do in the unholy mess that was Manhattan traffic when the entire subway system was out of commission. It took an hour and a half for them to get from Downtown to Chelsea, and another thirty minutes searching desperately for parking. They ended up three blocks away from the apartment building, which proved to be a problem as they walked home.
Jono stood out in his borrowed scrubs amidst everyone else around them. Walking barefoot on New York sidewalks ensured the first thing Jono would do when he got home was shower. At first he thought it was his appearance that caused people to do a double take, but then he realized they were staring at his eyes, and he remembered what Casale had said about the story the media was running with.
A god pack civil war, and he was the only god pack alpha werewolf in the entire city with wolf-bright blue eyes.
Sage lengthened her stride to put herself on his right, glaring at anyone who looked at Jono with clear recognition on their faces. When they finally reached their corner and turned down their street, Danai swore heatedly under her breath. It only took a second for Jono to see what had caused her irritation.
Hunkered down near the brownstone that held his flat was a dense group of journalists and reporters, cameras pointed at the entrance. Some of the gargoyles clung to the side of the building around the door, their stone-dry screeches a warning aimed at the media.
“Don’t say a single word,” Danai warned him.
“Wasn’t going to,” Jono muttered.
Sage dug out her set of keys to the flat, and she clutched them so tightly her knuckles went white. They were halfway down the block when the media finally caught sight of them, and from there it was an absolute scrum. Reporters ran to meet them, encircling them as they walked, thrusting microphones and mobiles set to record in their faces, shouting questions at him.
“Were you responsible for what happened in the subway?”
“How can you justify the attacks on innocent people?
“Are any other werecreatures coming from England?”
The questions came loud and furious, to which Danai calmly replied, “My client has no comment.”
Jono pressed his lips together and stared straight ahead, trying not to let any of his annoyance or anger show on his face. When they finally broke through the small crowd, he saw the remaining half of the gargoyles had positioned themselves on the stoop to guard the way in from trespassers, snapping stone teeth at anyone who got too close. The gargoyles let them pass, and Jono spared a brief moment to pat one on the head.
They climbed the steps, and Sage let them into the building. Danai made sure to firmly shut the door behind her until it locked before they trudged up five flights of stairs. The door to his flat was already opened when they turned the landing on the floor below.
Patrick stood in the entrance, expression blank, but the worry in his green eyes came through clear enough. His gaze raked over Jono’s body, lingering on his bare feet. “You need a shower.”
“I know,” Jono sighed.
He had dried blood stuck to his body beneath the scrubs, making his skin itch. He smelled like everything that had happened in the subway, and Jono wanted to wash it all off.
“We can wait until you’ve showered before we begin,” Danai said once they were all safe inside the flat and behind the threshold.
Patrick traced a sigil over the front door, casting a silence ward. The rush of static in Jono’s ears quieted the world beyond the flat. Wade sat on the sofa covered in crumbs and the detritus of what looked like six Pop-Tart boxes.
Patrick followed Jono’s gaze. “Wade’s been stress eating.”
“Youalmost get crushed like a soda can where the train you’re in is the can and tell me how you feel afterwards,” Wade retorted, opening another silvery foil packet.
“Clean up your mess,” Jono said on his way to the bathroom.
Jono grabbed clean clothes out of the dresser and spent less than five minutes beneath the spray of hot water. He was looking to get clean, not soak away the stress. He didn’t have time for that. When he made it back out to the living room, Jono could smell that Patrick had made him a cup of tea doctored precisely to his tastes.
Patrick came out of the kitchen with the mug in hand. Jono took it, leaning down to kiss him softly on the mouth. “I’m all right.”
“We couldn’t reach you,” Patrick said.
“Wade nicked my mobile before I shifted. I didn’t get a chance to retrieve it before we were separated.”
