Jono started the engine once everyone was buckled up and backed out of their spot. Leaving the car park at that time of the night meant little traffic, the ranks of taxis and ride shares diminished by the late hour. The drizzle of rain was concerning, if only because of what the clouds hid above.
No one spoke on the drive into Manhattan, crossing over the Queensboro Bridge on the way to the Art Deco building Marek and Sage owned in the Upper East Side. When they arrived, the front door opened and Sage came out in a dressing gown tied around her waist over her pajamas and ballet flats rather than slippers in deference of the sidewalk.
Patrick had to get out of the car in order to move the seat up so Wade could crawl out. Jono watched as Sage wrapped her arms around Patrick in a hug he returned after a couple of seconds.
“I’m sorry,” Sage said, smelling like worry and sadness that the strong breeze whipped away in seconds. Patrick’s grief was stuck in Jono’s lungs. All he wanted to do was wrap Patrick up in his arms and promise to keep him safe, but he couldn’t keep Patrick safe from loss.
Patrick didn’t say anything to that, merely patted her on the back before letting her go and getting back into the car. Sage waved at Jono before ushering Wade toward the building where Marek waited in the doorway, all the while scolding him about his jaunt to DC.
Jono drove away, taking them home. When they turned down their street in Chelsea sometime later, Jono expected to see the media present in front of their apartment, but no one was there. He was determined to make one circle of the block looking for any open parking spot, and if he couldn’t find one, he was going to park in the red zone. Except there was an empty spot right in front of their apartment building as luck would have it.
Or maybe not luck.
Jono was all set to back into the spot when the crackling scent of ozone filled the car, and gold-brown eyes reflected in the rearview mirror, staring at him.
“Bloody hell,” Jono growled, slamming his foot on the brake. He’d had enough of ozone stinging his tongue for one night.
“Cousin,” Hermes said, suddenly sprawled in the back seat. “Pattycakes.”
“Get the fuck out,” Patrick snarled.
“No.”
Patrick twisted around as much as the seat belt would let him, the scowl on his face an ugly thing that Jono wanted to wipe away. “What the fuck do you want?”
Hermes smirked at them, not at all perturbed about being locked in a car with their anger. “I’m here with a message from Hera. She wants to speak with you.”
“She could’ve rang,” Jono growled.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Hermes leaned forward, causing Patrick to pull back. “She and Zeus are back from Greece. They’re waiting for you at her home and require an audience.”
“We’re parking, and then we’re sleeping,” Patrick said.
“The parking spot will still be here when you return. Now drive.”
Jono tightened his grip on the steering wheel, hearing the leather creak from the pressure. “Does she know anything about what happened tonight?”
Hermes flopped backward. “Your loss was not our doing.”
Jono was certain he could trace every loss experienced by Patrick back to the gods, but he bit his tongue on that observation. He waited for Patrick to decide on what course of action to take because it wasn’t Jono’s right. Not with this.
Patrick pressed his palms over his eyes and rubbed at them hard. “Drive.”
Jono drove, not needing directions from their backseat driver. He remembered where Hera’s home was in Manhattan. The seven-story mansion was protected by gargoyles, the numbers seemingly doubled from their last visit. They parked out front where a spot was available, probably due to a little bit of magic.
Jono ignored the grating growls that greeted them from the gargoyles once they exited the Mustang. Hermes led the way to the double-door entrance of the home, opening it without needing a key.
The home was summer-warm inside. Jono couldn’t tell if that was central heating or the gods that were present. He could sense more than just Hera and Zeus in the home, and he didn’t like being outnumbered.
Fenrir roused once they crossed the threshold, teeth and claws sliding through Jono’s thoughts, pricking at his control. Beyond the god’s presence was the hint of Ginnungagap, Jono’s awareness of the primordial void making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Wait, Jono told the god in the quiet of his mind.
There was no need to let Fenrir out in the Greek pantheon’s territory. Depending on how they treated Patrick, Jono would give over his body without a fight. He and Fenrir had come to a delicate agreement over the god’s reach through Jono’s physical presence. He wouldn’t fight Fenrir, so long as the god listened to his reasons for holding back.
“This way,” Hermes said.
Rather than going to the roof with its patio and garden, they were led to the third floor, to a room with a gold-veined white marble floor and wide windows overlooking Central Park. Two chairs that could have doubled as thrones were positioned in front of the windows. An altar took up an entire wall beneath a mural of the Greek countryside, dominated by a vision of Hera granting blessings to devotees kneeling before her. It was blindingly colorful, and Jono was reminded that the white marble of the Parthenon and its ilk used to be painted like a rainbow.
