The complete disregard for their presence came down to magic. Patrick had been in the center of enough media scrums recently to know that his appearance right now was enough to incite one. That no one gave them a second glance proved godly manipulation was at play.
Maat led him out of the air-conditioned Capitol Building to the main rear exit that opened up onto the National Mall. He followed her down one of the two massive staircases that led to the ground on either side of the building. The grass stretching outward between them and the Washington Monument three-quarters of the way down the length of the park was lushly green, the trees lining the pathways providing shade in the muggy heat. It looked nothing like the parks back in New York City.
Patrick discreetly tugged at the collar of his shirt, already feeling sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He cast a cooling charm on his suit jacket, but it only did so much beneath the hot summer sun.
Maat appeared unbothered by the heat, head held high as she walked at a pace that was less a jog but wasn’t quite a slow walk. She didn’t speak until they passed the National Gallery of Art on their right.
“You should have stopped your father in Cairo,” Maat said.
Patrick had to consciously not grind his teeth. “I’m aware of that.”
She didn’t speak for another minute, staring straight ahead, chin tilted up proudly. “My brethren and I ultimately survived, despite your inaction.”
“We broke the spell.”
“A worthless action if we gods remain a target even now.”
“I’ve been trying tofixthat, but it’s a little hard to do when I’m locked up.” Patrick breathed sharply through his nose. “Thank you for that.”
“You are useless to us if mortal laws bind you to a sentence that is not yours to serve.”
“Yeah, I know. I still wasn’t looking forward to jail.”
“We are looking forward to an end, however it goes.” Maat turned her head slightly to look at him, her eyes the color of earth nourished by the Nile. “My ruling helped pave the way to clear your name. It does not clear your reputation.”
Patrick wasn’t worried about his reputation surviving—it was more importanthesurvived.
“An angel gave a seer a vision of a graveyard. It’s the first solid sign of the future he’s had in over a year,” Patrick said.
“We bury bodies, and we bury memories. We will bury the world if we must, in order for a different one to rise in the echo of its passing.” Maat looked forward again, never breaking stride. “It is the way of things, as inevitable as the Nile floods.”
“Bodies come back when raised. So can memories. What’s to stop someone else trying again if Ethan fails taking on Macaria’s godhead as his own?”
“The whole of the world cannot remember what is forgotten by everyone.”
Patrick frowned, glancing at her. “If one of your kind has that power, why haven’t you attempted it before now? Why make me fight this war for you?”
“Because Persephone is a mother above all else, and Macaria is intertwined too deeply with your family’s blood to risk wiping the world’s memory.” Maat came to a stop, finally facing him on the path shaded by tree branches overhead. The National Mall was full of people, but they were impossible to see beyond the fiery glow of Maat’s godhead that burnished her skin. “She will not leave her daughter to die, and some of us die so easily these days. We cannot afford the loss of one even as forgotten as Macaria.”
“Half you gods want her dead by virtue of aiding Ethan.”
“But that half is not the one you owe.”
Patrick was quiet for a long minute, refusing to look away from Maat. “Macaria is killing Hannah, isn’t she?”
He wasn’t speaking of his twin’s soul, because he knew nothing but madness remained in her mind. But her body still breathed, was still capable of carrying life even if it could barely contain a stolen godhead. He wondered what that stress was doing to her unborn child, wondered how much support she needed to see that child eventually born.
“Twenty-two years is a slow way to die,” Maat said.
Patrick closed his eyes, shame and regret and guilt coursing through him. Shielded as he was, he knew Sage wouldn’t get the scent off him. It wasn’t anything he wanted to be comforted over, because Maat was right. All of this could’ve maybe been avoided if he had only pulled the trigger when he’d had Ethan in his sights back in Cairo all those years ago at the end of the Thirty-Day War.
But if he had, he never would’ve known Jono or Sage or Wade. Never would’ve gained a pack and a family. Patrick would’ve remained alone, and he wondered, right then, if maybe it hadn’t only been shock that had stayed his finger on the trigger, but fate.
If there was one sure thing he’d learned over the years, it was you couldn’t outrun fate.
“Pay your debt, Patrick,” Maat said as she turned and walked away from him. “You owe us an end to all of this.”
He watched her leave, the muggy air rippling around her as Maat slipped through the veil in the way only gods could, no one the wiser. The smell of ozone faded, replaced by freshly cut grass that made him sneeze.
