The ringing in his ears sounded like a siren, impossible to hear through. His lungs didn’t want to work, and he would’ve spilled hot coffee all over himself and the floor if Jono hadn’t caught the mug as it slipped out of his fingers. The nausea that had followed him out of Manhattan and seemed to settle after entering the home earlier crawled up his throat and slid over his tongue, refusing to be ignored.
Patrick clapped a hand over his mouth, choking on bile. He stumbled past Jono and didn’t know how he made it to the hallway with the half bath, but he did.
And proceeded to be violently ill into the toilet.
“It’s been a stressful couple of months. The whole bloody mess with the trial and his job caused an ulcer he’s being treated for. The symptoms come and go,” Jono said from the hallway, lying through his damn teeth.
“Oh, if we had known, we’d have been sure to have something he could eat at brunch,” Eloise said, sounding distraught.
“We’ve potions on hand that could help with that,” Madelyn said.
“He’s being treated back in Manhattan,” Jono said.
Patrick spat the last bit of bile into the toilet, glad he hadn’t had anything but coffee all day. Ripping free some toilet paper with shaking hands, he wiped his mouth and nose before flushing it all away. Numb, he washed his hands and face, tried to wash the disgusting taste out of his mouth, but there was no hope there.
Maybe Jono would stop somewhere to get a drink after they left.
Because they would be leaving. Right the fuck now.
“I’m not up for brunch,” Patrick said when he finally stepped into the hallway.
He wasn’t at all surprised to see Jono acting like a living wall between Patrick and his mother’s family. His stomach still churned in a threatening way, but he swallowed hard to try to settle it. He couldn’t bring himself to smile at the people who worshipped the goddess who owned his soul debt.
Setsuna’s careful warnings all these years suddenly, achingly, made so much sense now.
Eloise opened her mouth to speak when Jono twisted on his feet with preternatural speed, body a blur for a split second. The knock that came from the front door just then made Patrick step in front of Jono before he could dart down the hallway.
“Werecreatures?” Patrick demanded.
Jono’s nostrils flared on his next intake of breath. “Yes.”
“Then stay the fuck behind me, because if they have demons riding their souls, I’m taking off their goddamn heads first.”
Patrick turned on his feet, conjuring up a mageglobe, the pale blue sphere burning bright against the palm of his hand. Someone breathed in sharply behind them, but he wasn’t going to apologize for the way his magic felt. Patrick expanded his personal shields to protect the people behind him as he walked to the front door. He opened it a few inches, just wide enough to see who stood on the porch.
The woman waiting there had hair more gray than brown, all of it pulled back in a single braid in deference of the fierce wind. Her wolf-bright amber eyes dominated a heart-shaped face, crow’s-feet at the corners of them and smile lines around her mouth. Patrick didn’t get a sense of hell off her, but one could never be too careful.
Behind her, scattered on the street, were a handful of men and women keeping watch but staying clear of the property line.
“Yeah?” Patrick asked.
“Alphas of the New York City god pack?” the woman asked.
Considering their faces had been splashed across the media since August, Patrick thought that was a rather rhetorical question. How the werecreatures had tracked them was something else entirely. “We were here for a visit and are just leaving. Didn’t think we needed to ask for pass-through rights.”
“We’ve no quarrel with you in our territory, but I would like to speak with you.”
The door was pushed open wider as Jono crowded in behind him. Patrick didn’t let his mageglobe burn out.
“What for?” Jono asked.
The woman grimaced. “My name is Georgelle. I’m alpha of the Salem god pack, and we’ve had sightings of hunters in the city.”
Patrick heaved out a sigh that made Georgelle wrinkle her nose, probably from the smell of vomit, and let his mageglobe fade away. “Yeah, we’ve got time to meet with you.”
Anything to get out of this fucking house.
7
