Gerard cupped the back of Patrick’s head, keeping him upright and stable, as he wielded the dagger given by the gods with brutal ease, cutting him loose of the spellwork. With every line he sliced through, agony shot through Patrick’s body, as if his entire nervous system was doused in acid. Control came back in pieces, and by the time Gerard had cut him free, backlash had him screaming into Gerard’s chest at the bottom of the grave.
“Oh, good, he’s alive!” Keith shouted from somewhere above them on solid ground.
Patrick’s thoughts were too scattered for him to understand what it meant that Keith was there. Fighting for focus was excruciating, almost as difficult as getting enough air into his lungs.
He forced himself to stop screaming, breathing raggedly, mud sliding down his body beneath the torrential downpour. Gerard tensed against him, and Patrick lifted his head, blinking hard as the world swam around him. Several more skulls and bony arms had pushed free of the rapidly destabilizing grave walls, driven by magic.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Gerard grunted, hauling Patrick to his feet.
His knees nearly buckled once he was vertical, feet sliding in watery mud. Gerard stabbed the zombies reaching for them with the dagger, heavenly fire flashing in the dark, brighter than lightning.
“Raise your arm over your head,” Gerard said.
Patrick did as he was told, flinching when warm fingers wrapped around his wrist with bruising strength. He looked up, right into Hermes’ eyes, and blinked rain out of his vision.
“Ready to pay your soul debt?” Hermes asked.
Patrick unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Fuck you. Let’s go fight a war.”
Hermes laughed, and between him and Gerard, they got Patrick out of the grave he was supposed to die in.
Up on the surface, the graveyard tucked away between buildings in the middle of historical Salem was overrun with zombies called forth by Andras and the Morrígan’s staff. The Hellraisers were holding their own against the horde, aided by over two dozen werecreatures picking off Dominion Sect magic users and hunters. Supporting the werecreatures were SOA agents in lettered windbreakers, magic at their fingertips and focus circles burning beneath their feet.
Andras in Ilya’s body stood behind the Dominion Sect forces, the Morrígan’s staff held aloft. The quartz crystal trapped within the knotwork glowed like a lighthouse beacon. In the swath of illumination it provided, Patrick could see more of the dead clawing free of the ground.
Zachary stood to Andras’ right, sending mageglobes in the direction of the SOA agents. Neither of them had fled yet, and Patrick half wondered if they even had a way out. Their job was to provide access to the Salem nexus. Eloise had been traded away from Patrick, and now the spellwork no longer held him.
Hades, Patrick realized, was nowhere to be found.
Another one of Zachary’s mageglobes slammed against the shields Patrick’s fellow SOA agents were holding up. The crackle of magic that fluctuated through the defense spoke of damage.
“Collins.”
Patrick jerked his head around, blinking in Gerard’s direction. Gerard grabbed Patrick’s right wrist and pushed the dagger against his hand. Patrick reflexively curled his fingers around the hilt, breathing harshly as he stared at the heavenly white fire dancing across the matte-black blade.
The screaming, metal-breaking sound of soultakers arriving echoed through the storm just then, catching everyone’s attention. Patrick knew they’d need the prayers in the blade now more than ever.
“Oh, fuck me, I didn’t sign up for those fuckers again!” Keith yelled from his position by a shattered gravestone.
“Yes, you did!” Gerard yelled back.
“You brought your team,” Patrick managed to get out, breathing coming easier the longer he was free of the spellwork.
“They go where I go, and I promised Jono I’d bring you back.”
Patrick flinched at Jono’s name. “How pissed is he?”
“Eh, if there’s a couch left in your apartment after all of this, I don’t think you’ll be sleeping on it. Are you ready to fight?”
Patrick could do with about forty-eight hours of sleep and several good meals, but that was wishful thinking. “Yeah.”
Gerard smiled tightly, the look shared between them that of soldiers who knew there was no standing down in a situation like this. Gerard unclipped his rifle and passed it over to Patrick, who took it with his left hand. Patrick watched dazedly as his former captain made a fist, fingers wrapping around the pole of theGáe Bulgas it was called forth. The spear crackled with power, Gerard’s eyes glittering with an inner light, his true aura leaking through. The smell of ozone cut through the air, so strong not even the rain could dampen it.
“They’ll eat the magic in your spear,” Patrick said, mouth dry and throat scratchy despite all the water he’d swallowed.
Gerard spun the spear in one hand, the deadly blade at the tip flashing with every rotation completed. “They can’t feast on all of it. I’ll draw the soultakers in so you have a chance to stab them.”
He had mud in places it should never be, his nerves were shot, and his chest ached in a way that made it difficult to catch his breath. Patrick still nodded agreement to the plan, blurry gaze trained on the handful of soultakers staggering their way through centuries-old headstones. He blinked hard several times until his vision cleared.
