They ended the call, and Patrick tucked his mobile into his back pocket. He leaned into Jono as they walked, the lit-up Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Arch growing larger as they approached the plaza. The police presence from last week had long since disappeared, though patrols of Prospect Park had been upped after Youssef’s murder.
“The park still feels weird,” Patrick muttered.
“Think it’s Ethan?” Jono asked.
Patrick shook his head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s sucking the life out of all the plants, and that’s definitely not normal.”
“A god?”
“Hard to say, but we can’t rule it out.”
Jono wished the Brooklyn Night Court had chosen a different spot to meet at, but Jono knew the vampires weren’t about to offer up their territory’s inner sanctum as a bargaining spot. The media attention Jono and Patrick brought with them these days wasn’t something the preternatural world particularly enjoyed. It had served to keep Estelle and her god pack in check, but Jono knew that break from attacks wouldn’t last long.
“We should’ve parked closer,” Patrick said as they waited for the light to change so they could cross the street.
“If there’d been a parking spot, I would have. As it is, we’re in a red zone,” Jono said.
The government plates on Patrick’s Mustang would hopefully ensure he wouldn’t get towed. No guarantee that wouldn’t happen though, especially with all the negative news stories about him specifically and their pack generally getting spread around.
Their god pack’s reputation was getting hit hard. So far, the packs under their protection were choosing to stay with them, but Jono knew that solidarity was tenuous unless he and Patrick could prove themselves worthy of leading.
The light changed, and they crossed the street, the arch softly lit against the night. The statues on top were grand enough, but it paled in size to the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.
“Not sure it’s a good idea to return to the scene of the crime like this,” Patrick mused.
“Wasn’t your crime,” Jono grunted.
They still passed over the site Youssef’s body had been dumped at. The kill site was still nowhere to be found since Patrick hadn’t committed the murder and couldn’t tell anyone anything.
They entered the park, Patrick’s look-away ward gaining them some privacy. He didn’t bother to cast any witchlights, so it was Jono who led the way through the park to the Vale of Cashmere. It was usually a thick pocket of greenery surrounding a pond and was utterly dark. Right now, the greenery was withered as if winter had come early.
Jono’s enhanced eyesight enabled him to make out the area better than a human could. He kept Patrick’s hand in his, guiding him forward into the dark. The buzz of mosquitos hummed in the air. Jono didn’t care if they bit him since he’d heal in seconds, but Patrick started swearing and slapping at his arms and neck.
“Goddamn bloodsuckers,” Patrick said.
“That’s no way to talk to your betters,” a voice shot back from the dark.
The undead smell of vampires drifted through the air, coating the back of his throat. Jono rocked to a halt some distance from the water, dialing up all his senses. A second later, dark blurs that Jono could barely make out slipped through the tree line and slammed to a halt on the brick pathway they stood on.
Patrick finally called up his magic to give them a little light to see by. The mageglobe that flared to life near his shoulder cast a pale blue light in their immediate area. The illumination reflected off eight pairs of eyes staring at them from the shadows.
Jamere was the master vampire of the Brooklyn Night Court, though he could’ve passed as a high schooler if one ignored the jagged fangs he flashed in a parody of a smile. Originally from the Caribbean, he’d come to New York City after the Civil War ended. People were fooled by his young appearance, but Jamere had been protecting his territory for over 150 years. Jono would never underestimate him.
Patrick glared at the master vampire. “You aren’t our betters.”
“We’re just the ones you’re begging for help,” Jamere said.
“Our god pack doesn’t beg.”
“Maybe you should start.”
“We’re here to talk about what happened in your territory last week in accordance with our alliance,” Jono said.
Jamere sauntered forward, dressed in basketball shorts and an oversized T-shirt, his sneakers making no noise against the brick walkway. “Here’s the thing about that alliance. None of you pray to our mother anymore, so I don’t think we owe you our help.”
“You’re that stupid to go against Lucien?”
“He doesn’t rule my Night Court.”
