Patrick yanked on the steering wheel, pulling into the street, eyes on the sky and not the road. “I’ll have Sage get us on the mayor’s agenda tomorrow.”
“What about tonight?”
Patrick glanced at him, mouth drawn into a grim line. “Text the pack alphas. Tell everyone they need to stay indoors. I’ll call Casale and then Henry to let them know about the sighting. Not much else we can do.”
“If the Sluagh are here, that means Medb is involved.”
“I know.”
Jono leaned back and kept his eyes on the sky and the flashes of lightning still burning through the dark. The Sluagh was a sign of war, and he wasn’t sure they were ready for what was coming.
4
City Hall wasa bustle of people who gave Jono and Patrick quite a few double takes when they entered the security area, shaking rainwater off their umbrellas. Jono had quit hiding his eyes behind sunglasses some time ago, and the wolf-bright blue color, a mark of the god strain werevirus running through his veins, always drew attention.
Jono was used to ignoring the stares and the whispers; he’d had years to learn how to turn the other cheek. Patrick’s expression wasn’t friendly in the least, and Jono wondered if maybe they should’ve stopped for more coffee along the way. What little sleep they’d gotten last night had been restless, and Patrick was always less murderous with caffeine in his system.
“Might want to adjust your face,” Jono muttered, resting his hand on the small of Patrick’s back.
“My face isn’t the one that needs adjusting,” Patrick said, not bothering to keep his voice low.
Definitely should’ve gotten more coffee.
They passed through the security checkpoint without hassle and were met by a young man who smelled human and looked as if he’d been impatiently waiting for them, judging by the unsubtle once-over he gave them. At least the bloke wasn’t an immortal, which was a welcome change from the last political aide they’d had to deal with when visiting the mayor.
That aide had been Tisiphone, an Erinyes who’d been forcibly removed from the Dagda’s sphere of influence by Hermes and returned to face judgment for her actions before Hera and Zeus. Considering she’d been someone who had watched Jono be tortured last year, he had no sympathy for the punishment she most likely endured from the heads of the Greek pantheon.
The Dagda, however, was another problem entirely.
“Ah, there you are,” the Dagda greeted them when they finally made it to his spacious office past the receiving room, voice deep and booming in Jono’s ears. “You realize I had to rearrange my entire schedule to fit you in?”
In his role as Mayor Doyle Ferbenn, the Celtic god was a tall, broad-shouldered man with curly hair more on the orange side of the ginger scale. His clothes were a flashier style than Jono cared for, favoring prints over dull monochrome colors. In this form, the Dagda was a distilled version of his true self, who had walked across the field beneath the Gap of Dunloe last winter. But gods in any form were dangerous, and Jono didn’t trust the immortal before them one bit.
They said nothing until after the aide left the office and Patrick laid down a silence ward. His magic was sharp in Jono’s nose, nearly drowning out the burn of ozone that lingered around the immortal.
“Dagda,” Patrick said, sounding polite enough. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency.”
The Dagda leaned back in his plush leather seat, staring at them with inhuman eyes. He didn’t offer them a seat, but Jono and Patrick took one anyway.
“We saw the Sluagh riding the leading edge of the storm last night,” Jono said.
From what they could gather, if anyone had gone missing last night, their absence hadn’t been reported to the police yet. That wasn’t to say the Sluagh hadn’t dragged unsuspecting citizens into their deadly clutches. The reports would hit the news eventually, like they had last winter.
The Dagda raised one thick eyebrow and made a low sound in the back of his throat. It was difficult to get a read on the god, but Jono thought he sounded curious. “Are you surprised? It is October. Samhain is close. The veil is ever thin at this time of the year.”
“It’s not Samhainnow,” Patrick pressed.
“You marshal your forces. Why would the same not be said of your father and the hells that follow his lead?”
Jono grimaced, hating to agree with a god. “We’ve heard nothing about Ethan or the Dominion Sect’s movements in recent weeks.”
“As you say, that means nothing.”
“We know that. But you interceded before—”
“These are not the same circumstances.”
“Aren’t they?” Patrick shot back.
