They joined Marek and Wade at the table, and Wade hadn’t filled his plate yet. He handed Patrick the serving tongs for the steaks with a flourish.
“You go first,” Wade said.
It was his own version of care, and Jono didn’t bother hiding his smile. The rest of them didn’t serve themselves until Patrick had filled his plate first and started digging in. Patrick ate with a sort of single-minded focus that told Jono he hadn’t eaten much while locked up. Stress probably played a factor in that, as well as whatever had been served. But magic users needed to be fed, and he made a mental note to make some of Patrick’s favorite dishes for the rest of the week.
No one spoke, the companionable silence that settled over the table broken only by the comforting heartbeat echoing in Jono’s ears from his left. Having Patrick back settled the ferocious ache he’d carried around since the arrest, and Jono didn’t want to let him out of his sight.
He could’ve done without Hermes ruining his good mood.
“Doesn’t this look cozy,” the god said as he waltzed out of the bedroom.
Jono made a face at the burst of ozone that ruined the taste of perfectly good steak in his mouth. “Fuck off.”
“Is that any way to greet a guest?”
“Guests are invited. No one invited you,” Patrick said.
Hermes smirked. “Lucky for you I don’t need an invitation, Pattycakes.”
Patrick set down his fork and knife, twisting around on his chair. Jono glared at Hermes over the top of Patrick’s head. “What do you want?”
The immortal wasn’t wearing the FBI uniform from Sunday, dressed once more in his typical torn jeans and band T-shirt. His dyed-green curls looked a little faded, dark brown coming in at the roots, and it was that color which more closely matched his gold-brown eyes.
“Your dagger is safe,” Hermes said.
“I saw it on my nightstand,” Patrick said.
Hermes raised his hand and uncurled his fingers, revealing the carved wooden raven resting on his palm. “This does not belong to you.”
“It doesn’t belong to you either. Put it back in the box I had it in.”
“Fenrir warned you to leave it alone,” Jono reminded the god.
Hermes tossed the piece of the Morrígan’s staff from hand to hand. “You never told us you broke the staff, Pattycakes.”
“Srecha gave me her blessing. What did you think was going to happen?” Patrick asked.
Jono’s gaze strayed to Patrick’s left hand for a second, where his skin had carried that goddess’ burning mark in Paris.
“If the staff is broken, does that negate some of its power? Shouldn’t you gods be happy about that?” Sage asked.
Hermes snorted. “What a quaint way of viewing things.”
“Return the raven to Patrick.”
The smell of ozone got stronger, and Jono looked across the table at where Marek sat, his hazel eyes gone completely white. He didn’t know which Norn was speaking through his friend, but Jono wished they hadn’t joined the conversation. Marek didn’t need to lose any more colors.
Hermes shot Marek and the goddess stealing his voice and eyes a dirty look. “It doesn’t belong to him, cousin.”
“Neither does it belong to you. Return it. I will not ask again.”
Jono wondered if Hermes was going to disobey a direct order from one of the Fates, but in the end, the messenger god tossed the carved raven into the air and it disappeared. “Fine.”
“It better be back in its warded box,” Patrick warned.
“I know better than to ignore a request by one such as Urðr.”
Jono snorted his disbelief of that. “Why are you here?”
