Jono pressed his shoulder to Patrick’s side, planting all four feet against the muddy ground. The dead surrounding them lurched ever closer, empty eye sockets or rotten cavities staring at the Morrígan’s staff. Jono growled a warning, but Patrick didn’t seem to hear him, all his attention on the weapon in his hand and the sky above.
The downdraft that suddenly hit brought Patrick to his knees, his right arm going around Jono’s back. Jono stayed upright through sheer stubbornness, though his head was forced lower as the wind burst outward all around them with a continuous pressure. It slammed into the battle, indiscriminate of sides, forcing everyone back and to the ground. The sound of wings flapping all around them was a buzz that turned into a hissing white noise, drowning everything else out.
Patrick’s arm shook as he held the Morrígan’s staff aloft, lips peeled back in a harsh grimace of pain. He wasn’t touching the notched wood of the weapon, but the mere act of holding it was dangerous. Jono wanted to grab it and toss it out of reach, half wondering if Fenrir would be enough protection in that act.
“I can’t—” Patrick gasped out, his arm dipping, elbow bending.
Jono twisted his head around, shoving closer so Patrick could rest both arms on his back. Jono held the both of them up as they found themselves inside a vortex of ravens and crows, the shining quartz crystal their only source of light. It was enough to reveal the war goddess descending from the storm clouds, the smell of ozone practically choking Jono.
The Morrígan was pale-skinned and thin in the way starving things hungered. Her hooded cloak was made with a thousand black feathers, and it drifted around her body like wings. Her bare feet were covered in grave dirt, and her splayed hands were stained red with blood along her fingertips. The gown she wore was sleeveless, tangling around her knees. The only bright thing about her was the golden torque she wore, the triple moon carved on the rounded ends that rested against her collarbones shining like sunlight.
“Cousin,” Fenrir said in greeting.
The Morrígan’s feet touched the earth, and the ground trembled as if welcoming her. “Vánagandr.”
Patrick pushed himself upright and offered the Morrígan her staff, his arm shaking with the effort of holding it. “This belongs to you.”
The war goddess raised her hands to draw back her hood, revealing inky black hair braided back along her skull and threaded through with feathers. Her eyes, when revealed, were a blue-gray reminiscent of bruised skin on a corpse.
The Morrígan reached for her staff, curling her fingers around the notched wood of the pole. Patrick let it go, and Jono watched as the severed hand in its iron gauntlet fell to the ground. The Morrígan drew the staff close, the light from the quartz crystal shining impossibly brighter. The glow washed her out, illuminating the ravens and crows that still whirled around them, crying out to their mistress.
“You call for war,” the Morrígan said.
“War was already happening. We’re just here to end it,” Patrick said.
The Morrígan raised the staff above her head, fingers tightening around the notched wood of the pole. “War never ends.”
“Someone else can fight it, then, after this battle is over.”
The goddess of war smiled, her gaze turning to the heavens. “So be it.”
When the Morrígan slammed the butt of her staff to the ground, Jono had to dig in his claws to stay upright. The concussive force of her magic rolled through them, knocking Patrick to his knees. Jono angled his body to try to shield Patrick from the pressure, and he felt Patrick turn his head into his fur.
The ravens and crows winged higher into the sky, cutting through the demons like missiles. Bodies fell to the earth, trailing blood and smoke, as the ravens and crows searched for new targets. In their wake, the battlefield was revealed.
In a stunning shift, every single zombie went from fighting against the gods and those allied with Jono’s god pack to turning on the demons, hunters, and Dominion Sect magic users. The panicked shouts turned into screams of terror as the walking dead obeyed their rightful mistress once more.
“Go,” the Morrígan said to them, already turning to join the fight.
Fenrir wrangled control from Jono, long enough to say, “May the battle born always pray to you.”
The war goddess tipped her head in acknowledgment, the gesture fleeting as the ravens and crows called to her from the sky. The Morrígan’s feathered cloak rippled in the wind like wings as she strode forward over the bodies of the dead, staff held tight in her hand, exactly where it belonged.
Patrick leaned against Jono for a second before straightening up. “Let’s go.”
He stumbled toward the park, and Jono could only follow. The grayed-out lines of the spellwork stretched around them, the concentric circles pulsing with power as if they were alive. Jono saw hints of light beginning to crack through, like lava sliding through its hardened top as it flowed. Ginnungagap could no longer keep the sacrificial spell in check.
This is a beginning, Fenrir said into Jono’s mind.
I thought it was an end?Jono asked.
It is whatever you make it be.
As riddled warnings went, it wasn’t any worse than what the Norns had given them.
Patrick lengthened his stride, picking up the pace. The air vibrated with magic, the taste of hell scratching at the back of Jono’s throat. Nothing good waited for them up ahead.
Mageglobes cut through the air, heading their way. Patrick’s magic streaked forward to intercept the enemy’s attack, but he wasn’t able to intercept them all. Jono was all set to knock Patrick down and cover him when one of Nadine’s shields slammed down around them. The spells crashed against her defense, ripples flowing through the shield, but it didn’t break.
