Jono didn’t like being a target. He liked it even less when the man he loved was in the enemy’s crosshairs.
* * *
Jono wokeup Sunday morning to an empty bed. He ran a hand over cool sheets and dialed up his hearing. He could hear Patrick’s heart beating in the kitchen, a steady metronome that he’d always find comforting. Jono stretched until his spine popped before shoving the duvet off and getting out of bed. He’d slept naked last night, so he fetched a pair of joggers from the dresser and headed for the kitchen.
Jono found Patrick standing in front of the coffee maker, dressed for the day in jeans and a T-shirt. He was barefoot, having left his dagger and mobile in the bedroom, dark red hair messy from sleep. Jono wrapped his arms around Patrick’s waist from behind and kissed the top of his head.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” Jono asked.
“Not much.”
They’d spent yesterday afternoon in a long meeting with Danai and the PR company, taking the conference call at Sage’s flat, in a room warded for silence. It had been a bloody headache, but they’d finally released their statement refuting Estelle’s accusation. How much good it would do them remained to be seen.
“Want me to make you a fry-up?”
The coffee maker beeped, and Patrick set about pouring himself a cup. “Sure.”
He didn’t sound thrilled about breakfast, but Jono knew Patrick hadn’t eaten much yesterday. A meal would do him good. Patrick stayed out of his way but didn’t leave the kitchen. His presence soothed Jono, who stole a kiss when Patrick stole a piece of bacon.
Jono was finishing scrambling the eggs when the flat’s threshold pulsed in such a way that even he felt it. He dropped the spatula, a shiver coursing down his spine as Patrick’s head snapped around.
The heavy knock on the front door was all the warning they got.
“Police and FBI! Open up!” someone shouted.
Jono turned the hob off. “Don’t answer the door.”
Patrick set his coffee mug down. “They’ll batter it down if we don’t.”
“You don’t know if it’s really the police out there. It could be hunters. It could be the Dominion Sect.”
“Then I’ll shield us.”
Patrick moved to leave the kitchen, but Jono grabbed his arm. “Patrick.Don’t.”
Someone pounded on the door again. “Open up!”
“We need to let them in,” Patrick said quietly.
The dark circles beneath his green eyes stood out starkly on his pale face. Jono was reminded Patrick hadn’t gotten much, if any, sleep last night. It made him wonder if Patrick had anticipated something like this happening, if he’d tossed and turned last night because of the possibility.
Jono unclenched his fingers after a moment and followed Patrick to the front door. He was glad to see Patrick had conjured up a mageglobe, the hand holding it tucked behind him, out of sight. At least he was being cautious.
“I’m opening the door,” Patrick said loudly.
Jono was ready to yank him out of the line of fire as Patrick undid the lock and pulled the door open, magic making his skin itch from the shield that settled close over both of them. Jono peered over Patrick’s shoulder at where Casale stood on the landing, a pair of ESU officers flanking him, one of them carrying a small battering ram. The fourth person crowding the landing was a man in a dark suit who smelled human to Jono’s nose. The FBI badge hanging from his neck was impossible to miss.
Casale’s gaze was shuttered when he looked at Jono before shifting his attention to Patrick. The FBI agent in the suit raised his hand, a folded piece of paper held between two fingers.
“SOA Special Agent Patrick Collins, I have a warrant for your arrest,” the man said.
Jono couldn’t smell a damn thing coming off Patrick, but he could hear the way his lover’s heartbeat spiked like a hummingbird’s.
“What’s the charge?” Patrick asked.
“The murder of Youssef Khan.”
“Bollocks,” Jono snarled. “Patrick didn’t kill anyone.”
