“Did you think the veil would break all at once in a single day? You’re forgetting what Ethan perpetuated with the Thirty-Day War and the sacrifices last year during summer. It takes time to break through the veil, time we are losing. The Sluagh are following the storm lines. Áltsé Hashké tells me he has found marigolds in the subways. The dead are restless in their graves.”
“What do you want me to do? Ethan could be anywhere. I don’t have time to go from city to city chasing after rumors.”
Quetzalcoatl’s hand snapped out, grabbing Patrick by the wrist with an implacable grip. Talons pricked his skin, making Patrick freeze. The god’s true form wasn’t the man sitting before him but a huge, feathered serpent, and the reminder made Patrick wrap his fingers around the hilt of his dagger.
Quetzalcoatl was on their side; Patrick didn’t think the god wanted him dead before he paid his soul debt, but one never knew.
“You need to call the gods of heaven to fight, the way Ethan has called the gods of every hell,” Quetzalcoatl said.
Patrick scowled. “All of you have been telling me for years this was my fight, not yours.”
“Yes, but the end of it belongs to every pantheon tied to the mortal plane. What gets you there at last can be drawn from all of us who came before.” Quetzalcoatl showed all his sharp teeth in a smile that left Patrick cold before letting go. “Stories are shared, after all. They are how we exist, how we are remembered.”
“They’re also how you die.”
Quetzalcoatl’s eyes flashed molten gold for a split second. “Creation is not the sole purview of one pantheon. Neither is death. Sometimes, for a world to be born, another must die.”
Patrick stepped back, trying to get some distance between them, but didn’t get far, not with Quetzalcoatl still gripping his wrist. “Say I ask for help? Say I pray for it? Since when have any of you ever listened to me? I asked the Dagda for help with the Sluagh, and he said it wasn’t his fucking problem.”
“I doubt that.”
“So maybe he didn’t use those words. The sentiment was still the same.”
Quetzalcoatl got to his feet, and the room suddenly felt too small, trapped inside it with a god. “Find Ethan and stop this madness. Some of us won’t survive the veil tearing again.”
They’d lose the prayers that sustained them, their heavens and hells tied to the mortal plane fading faster than before. The current status quo was survivable, but not if Ethan won. Patrick knew that. He was doing his best to pay his soul debt, but the price was getting steeper and steeper, and he wasn’t sure the cost wouldn’t outright kill him at this point.
The door banged open just then, and Wade barreled inside, an irritated military aide behind him, who stayed in the hallway. Wade scowled at Quetzalcoatl, sliding between the god and Patrick, knocking the god’s arm aside and forcing him to let go of Patrick.
“I remember you, Agent Pretzel,” Wade said.
Quetzalcoatl looked visibly pained at the misuse of his name. “You’re looking better than the last time I saw you.”
“No thanks to you.” Wade reached behind him, arm waving around frantically until he snagged Patrick by the front of his jacket, never taking his eyes off the god. “I’m stealing Patrick.”
“We weren’t finished.”
“What part ofstealingdidn’t you hear?”
Wade hauled Patrick toward the door with a grip he couldn’t break unless he wanted to tear his leather jacket and ruin the charms embedded in it. Since Patrick wasn’t keen on that, he let himself be pulled into the relative safety of the hallway.
“Remember what I said,” Quetzalcoatlcalled out.
“Yeah, I know,” Patrick muttered, knowing the god could hear him.
“Reed said we could go home. He got us a flight on a private jet because of security or something. Do you think I’ll get to pick my snacks again like when we went to Chicago?” Wade asked.
“No, because Marek isn’t footing the bill. The government is, and they’re cheap.”
Patrick was cognizant of the military aide following in their wake as Wade led him unerringly to Jono. He was standing off to the side, eyes locked on them, and Patrick gave him a quick nod as they drew close.
“Found him,” Wade announced. “Can we go?”
Jono leaned in to brush a kiss over Patrick’s cheek, discreetly breathing in. The displeased sound that left his throat at the lingering scent of ozone made Patrick shake his head in warning.
“Pat,” Jono growled.
“Had a second meeting with DEA Special Agent Juan Delgado after the FBI agent finished. You remember him,” Patrick said.
