Jono and Sage shifted back to human, the sound of breaking bone and tearing skin loud in the confines of the lobby. The pair had no clothes to change into, but their nudity didn’t bother anyone. Jono didn’t care about the glass underfoot as he strode over to Patrick.
Despite the mud still caked into his clothes and ground into his skin, despite the lingering foulness in his mouth from the spell he’d been subjected to, Patrick didn’t hesitate to drag Jono into a kiss. Patrick bit at his mouth, drawing him in with a desperate fervor that loosened every single muscle in his body.
“You’re all right?” Jono asked once they parted, his grip like iron on Patrick’s shoulder and waist.
His soul was a bruised mess from the Salem spell, he couldn’t shake off the ghostly reminder of bruises, and exhaustion pulled at him in a way he hadn’t felt since the Mage Corps. None of that mattered now that he was holding Jono in his arms.
“I can fight,” Patrick said.
Jono stroked the knuckles of one hand over Patrick’s cheek before cupping the back of his neck and tugging him forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t pull that shit again.”
Patrick let out a ragged little laugh. “It worked.”
“I don’t care.”
He could hear the tired hints of anger from their last phone call in Jono’s voice, but it was nearly subsumed by relief. Patrick pressed his hand over Jono’s chest, feeling his heart beat steadily.
“You know why I had to do it.”
Jono’s expression twisted, his wolf-bright blue eyes never looking away from Patrick’s face. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it. You’ve given up enough for this world.”
Patrick curled his fingers against warm skin, as if he could hold on and never let go. “Youaremy world, and I’d make that same choice every time if it could keep us safe and bring me back to you.”
It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was what he could say, and Patrick let the words go rather than keep them behind his teeth. Offering himself up to take away one avenue of Ethan’s power to keep his pack safe would be worth it every time.
Jono kissed him, hard and quick, holding him tight enough to bruise, before stepping back. “You’re mine as well. Don’t ever doubt it.”
Patrick nodded before he looked to where Sage stood off to the side, her long wet hair draped over her bare breasts. He couldn’t see the wound in her gut that had sent her to the ICU, but her unmarked skin didn’t quite assuage his guilt.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Patrick said, voice cracking a little.
Sage stepped closer to hug him tightly, and Patrick hugged her back just as hard. “You weren’t the one gutted by a spelled and poisoned blade.”
“I could’ve gone back. Ishouldhave.”
Sage ruffled his hair with gentle fingers before loosening her hold. “You did what you had to do, like any good alpha would. I won’t ever blame you for that, so don’t blame yourself.”
Patrick swallowed hard and nodded, because there was no use in telling her he’d feel guilty about that choice for years. Sage knew him well enough to know the guilt would stick with him.
“Wade got us out of Bellevue, and we went looking for Jono. Eir healed me after she and the other valkyries arrived,” Sage explained.
“If you are finished,” Ashanti called out, “come this way.”
She curled her fingers at them in a command gesture before moving farther into the lobby, flanked by Lucien and Carmen.
They walked through a glass-encased court filled with empty tables and chairs, the reactionary storm raging beyond the wall of windows. Glass rattled with a soft hum as thunder boomed above the library. They left it behind for a set of stairs and a hallway that led into a marble rotunda decorated with murals and plasterwork. The witchlights reflected off hints of gold before it all fell into shadow again as they entered the library itself.
The walls were three levels high and packed with bookshelves behind metal wire barriers. Narrow catwalks circled the large room on the second and third levels, metal sliding ladders tucked into corners. The arched and painted ceiling reflected the light along gold-leaf edges. Books inside sealed glass display cases sat on either side of the entrance they’d come through. A pair of low-built, leather-covered benches sat near the unused fireplace.
The smell of old paper filled the air, and the scratchy sensation of activated protective wards brushed against Patrick’s personal shields. Whatever preservation magic was in the room wasn’t tied to a threshold, but that didn’t mean it was welcoming.
“What now?” Marek asked, taking a seat on one of the benches.
Lucien unstrapped his Kevlar vest enough to reach beneath it and pull out the small, human-skin-bound book Patrick had taken from the Library of Congress. He passed it to his mother, and Ashanti took it with a nod.
“Now Patrick bleeds,” Ashanti said.
“How much?” he asked warily. “I’ve been drained enough lately.”
