Nadine created a hole in her shield just wide enough for him to cross through, her magic sealing shut behind him once he passed. The wind and rain slammed into him again, the gale force nearly driving him back a step. Patrick ducked his head and ran to where Jono crouched near the shore at the far end of the unfenced yard.
Jono was in the midst of shifting to heal the wound Gungnir had inflicted on him, blood washing away beneath the pouring rain when Patrick reached him. The wound was still raw-looking in human form, bleeding sluggishly along his thigh.
“Need to shift again,” Jono got out through gritted teeth.
Patrick knelt beside him, keeping an eye on the fight above. “Do it. I’m not going anywhere.”
Jono was halfway through the shift back to wolf, more a mass of fur and skin twisting over breaking bone, when a handful of screaming Sluagh came rushing over the water toward them. Patrick stood, threw his mageglobe at the unforgiven dead, and released the fusillade spell.
The mageglobe acted as an anchor for the spell, the sustained attack forcing the Sluagh back. They scattered with inhuman shrieks, the ugly, ghostly creatures all teeth and claws as they tried to come back around. Patrick fed the spell magic, the soulbond pulled tight between him and Jono, the never-ending flashes from his mageglobe like a mini supernova burning over the water.
The Sluagh screamed their aggravation, circling around them like vultures, with more dropping from above to join the fight. The Wild Hunt shifted positions to hold the stragglers back, but one spirit got through, screeching as it targeted Patrick and Jono.
Not willing to let anyone be carried off and killed, Patrick raised his dagger, the heavenly white fire burning like a beacon around it. The Sluagh never changed trajectory, and Patrick layered his shield around them both even as he thrust his dagger through his defenses. The blade found a home in the incorporeal form of the Sluagh.
The spirit couldn’t die, but the prayers in the dagger could harm anything, no matter their state. It howled in agony as the magic in the dagger ripped it apart, burning the spirit down to nothing. Unlike with a soultaker, not even ash remained at the end, just the afterimage of its shape floating across Patrick’s vision.
When his vision cleared, Patrick saw the Wild Hunt chasing the Sluagh into the storm clouds, lightning leading the way.
15
“Bloody fucking gods,”Jono hissed out.
Patrick turned his back on the horizon, drawing down his magic. The fusillade spell cut off, the roar in the air that of the wind and not a battle. He let go of the soulbond, even if he didn’t lower his shields. Jono was back to human, Fenrir having helped speed up the shifts. The wound on his thigh was closed, but the bruised line marring his skin showed he wasn’t completely healed.
“Are you all right?” Patrick asked, offering him a hand up, ignoring the mud they were both caked in.
“I’ll be fine. Healing is happening, just slow because of that sodding spear.”
Jono staggered to his feet, and Patrick checked him over for any other wounds. “You need clothes.”
“I have some in the Mustang’s boot.”
Patrick nodded. “We’ll—”
A shadow drifted over them, growing larger by the second. Patrick’s head snapped up, squinting against the rain pounding against his shield and blurring out the world. He didn’t loosen his grip on his dagger, even when he figured out who it was coming their way. The ghostly horse and its rider descending weren’t the enemy, but Patrick would never consider the god a friend.
The specter’s hooves touched the ground nearby, half the horse’s head more bone than rotten flesh in appearance. The empty eye sockets made for a strange gaze, but it paled in comparison to Gwyn ap Nudd’s attention.
The Welsh god urged his steed closer, his black eyes shot through with molten gold staring at them through the metal-and-leather helmet he wore. He carried a spear in his right hand, the metal at the point burning red orange, as if newly made.
“We’ve been chasing the Sluagh since they fled the Otherworld and made it past the veil,” Gwyn ap Nudd said.
“Did Medb send them?” Patrick asked.
“There is no whip that drives them this time, merely opportunity.”
“That’s just fucking great.”
Gwyn ap Nudd frowned, never blinking. “I was not aware you held a piece of the Morrígan’s staff.”
“No one ever asked.” Patrick turned his back on the god to check on everyone behind them, seeing Nadine was back on her feet. “I’m not giving it to you.”
“You cannot give it to Ethan or the gods of hell. It belongs to the Morrígan.”
Patrick clenched his teeth, not in the mood to listen to what gods had to say. “I’m well fucking aware of what’s at stake if I give the damn thing away.”
“As are we all. That is why I am here.”
