Heavenly fire exploded from the blade, streaking away from Hannah into the pentagram and the spellwork beyond. The rain seemed to slow in its descent, the wind lessening from a howl to a whisper. Everything froze, fate balanced on a precipice.
Ethan’s scream was soundless in that void, the magic—the godhead—that could never be his slipping away forever. Because Patrick had come to this fight with two weapons that the gods had given him—the dagger and Jono.
It was Jono who went for Ethan’s throat, the shine of Fenrir in his eyes, teeth all his own. Patrick saw a spray of red before Jono dragged Ethan to the ground. The earth shook with their landing, the rumble breaking through the stillness that had settled over everything.
Cold gray fog exploded in the air, the veil covering everything until the only light that Patrick could see was the fire burning around the hilt of his dagger still buried in Hannah’s chest. He blinked at it, staring in disbelief at the faintest flicker of light drifting up from Hannah’s body. In that weak glow, all he could see was the damaged little girl inside the fractured woman she never got to become flickering in the shine of magic all around them.
“She’ll need payment,” Hermes said as he stepped out of the veil into the courtyard, the fog parting around him. “The dead always do.”
Patrick tipped his head back and stared at Hermes, Macaria squirming in his arms. “Hermes. Please. I can’t pay her way.”
Hermes arched an eyebrow. “Can’t you?”
Patrick opened his mouth to protest that he couldn’t, because he had nothing left to offer, but then realized that was a lie. With trembling fingers, Patrick dug into his pocket, biting his lip and hoping—praying, for once in his life—that he had what he needed.
His fingers curled around the last gold coin, the one Hermes had left him on that hospital bed over a year ago, and he pulled it free. The obal gleamed against his palm in the dim grayness of the veil, the weight of it impossible to measure.
“Half a payment for half a soul,” Hermes said.
Patrick reached out with a shaking hand and placed the coin between Hannah’s lips, slipping it past her teeth. Then he gripped the dagger and slid it free of her chest, throat tight as he got to his feet. He sheathed the blade, all the while staring at Hermes over his sister’s body and the remnants of her soul.
“What now?” Patrick asked, voice cracking on the question.
Hermes extended his hand, palm up, gaze unyielding. “You come with me.”
“Patrick!”
Jono’s voice echoed through the fog of the veil, and Patrick jerked at the sound of it, wanting to turn and find him.
“Don’t look back,” Hermes said, the offer of his hand one more choice the gods were forcing Patrick to make. “You can never look back when you follow me like this.”
Patrick knew he should ignore Jono’s cry, but he couldn’t. The soulbond tying them together meant that wasn’t possible on Earth, in the heavens, the hells, or, for once, here in the stretched-out emptiness of the veil bridging each world with the ghostly whispers of long-forgotten prayers.
Footsteps sounded in the distance, getting closer. Then a hand—warm and familiar—grabbed his shoulder, fingers holding on tight, as if they would never let go.
“Patrick,” Jono said raggedly. “Stay with me.”
Patrick didn’t blink, his gaze locked on Hermes’ face, the god staring at him with that single hand outstretched, fingers beckoning. Hermes tilted his head to the side, faded dyed curls falling across his forehead. The veil was dim all around them, but Hermes’ aura washed everything out—everything but the baby Patrick carried in his arms and what was left of Hannah’s soul drifting between them like the faintest of witchlights.
Patrick swallowed thickly, mouth dry like desert sand, chilled down to his bones. He licked his lips, felt Jono’s grip tighten until his muscles throbbed, and Patrick knew there was no choice here.
There never had been and never would be.
He’d lost that right years ago, a lifetime ago, when he was bleeding at Persephone’s feet as he begged her to save him. Because gods never gave anything for free, and Patrick’s life and soul had been forfeit when she closed the wound in his chest and held his soul debt in her hand.
“Let me go,” Patrick said with numb lips. “Jono, please. You have to let me go.”
When Jono spoke, the words came out as if Fenrir had shredded each syllable, but Patrick couldn’t hear the god in his lover’s voice at all. “Don’t. Don’t ask me to do that.”
Patrick sucked in a breath that made his teeth hurt, and his lungs ached from the chill of it. “You can find me again. I need you to find me again.”
“Patrick. Ethan is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore. Juststay.”
Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, tears pricking at the corners, and when he opened them again, Hermes hadn’t disappeared like the god always had in the past. Patrick wanted so badly to turn around, to see Jono’s face, but he knew if he did that, he’d be digging their graves for eternity.
“I love you, Jono,” Patrick said, the words tumbling from his mouth like a promise, like an anchor—a tether long enough to link them through the veil. “But I have to do this, so I need you to let me go.”
Jono pressed up against him, body shockingly warm in the coldness of the veil. Patrick shuddered, head jerking a centimeter to the side before he caught himself. He blinked, still staring at Hermes and the offer the gods were giving him, written in his family’s blood.
