“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Patrick said.

Carmen smirked over her shoulder as she wriggled a key into an old iron lock on the door and twisted it. Delicate wards burned over the iron, spreading outward to cover the warehouse door before fading away. The lock clicked loudly in the little alleyway they were all crowded in.

“We made a deal. It’s been in our Night Court for decades,” Carmen replied.

Patrick knew she wasn’t talking about just the building.

The abandoned warehouse in the Meatpacking District was one of the last few buildings not bought up by real estate conglomerates and turned into trendy nightclubs and luxury condos. It had definitely seen better days, what with its boarded-up windows near the roof and layered graffiti stretching across the entire side of the building not facing the street.

The front of the building was surprisingly inaccessible, with the only way inside being the side door located down the alley. Carmen stepped aside and let Einar push open the old, heavy door. The wards seemed to have kept trespassers at bay, though Patrick doubted that faded magic had really done much considering the power emanating from the building’s threshold once a person got close enough to sense it.

If the building didn’t want you there, then you wouldn’t stay.

The name of the place said it all, and names still held power, even in this modern age. An old, corroded brass sign still hung on the door bearing the name Ginnungagap on its plating. Patrick had to ignore the urge to run battering away at his lizard hindbrain. He chewed on the inside of his bottom lip, trying to get his nerves under control. He’d closed his shields up tight, so none of the werecreatures with him could smell his fear, but they could still hear his heartbeat going a mile a minute.

Patrick would blame it on the alcohol he’d drunk, except he hadn’t had nearly enough to infuse him with much-needed liquid courage. In all honesty, he knew there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to get him through this reunion intact.

“When did she name it?” Patrick wanted to know.

Carmen stepped into the darkness beyond the doorway. “It named itself and goes where it likes. This city is one of its homes.”

Ginnungagap, the yawning abyss.

“Fucking immortals,” he muttered under his breath.

Jono shot him a sharp, appraising look that Patrick tried to ignore.

“Move,” Einar ordered as he followed Carmen inside.

Given the choice, Patrick wouldn’t set one foot on their claimed territory. But he didn’t have a choice, and that was why he was here. Patrick ground his teeth together and stepped over the threshold, fully expecting to be swallowed whole by the reality behind the myth.

He wasn’t.

The others slowly came in after him. The threshold they crossed was powerful, ancient, and surprisingly malleable in the way it filled every last inch of the building’s structure, blocking out the world. The dead zone inside the warehouse made Patrick’s skin crawl, all sounds from outside muffled inside the walls.

Patrick pulled out his cell phone to check if it still worked and found he had no signal. The dead zone blocked electronics the same way he had a feeling it would block any unwanted magic. If he still had the ability to tap a ley line, Patrick doubted he’d be able to do it past Ginnungagap’s threshold.

He tried anyway, conjuring up a couple of weak witchlights, tiny sparks of magic that could be used to light the way. Casting them felt like pulling teeth, but Patrick held the spell in his mind, making it clear his intentions weren’t anything but benign to the building and what lived inside its structure.

I mean you no harm, Patrick thought.

It felt like an age before the pressure eased and he could breathe again. A warm hand brushed against his, and he turned his head to look at Jono. The taller man was staring into the darkness with a tense expression on his face.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Jono said in a low voice. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“You can wait outside,” Patrick told him.

Jono shot him an aggravated look. “You’re off your bloody head if you think I’m leaving you in here alone.”

“Then shut up and let me do the talking.”

They started forward again, Patrick’s magic barely pushing back the dark. Musty, sour air hit his nose as everyone carefully worked their way through years and years of debris to the center of the building.

Someone hidden in the dark flipped a switch. The humming whine of a generator powering up reached Patrick’s ears. Several floodlights came on, the light almost too bright in the dark, enclosed space. Patrick vanished his witchlights, squinting to try to save his night vision, but it was a lost cause. He couldn’t see much beyond the ring of light they stood in, but the back of his neck prickled from too many eyes on them he couldn’t see.

Emma, Leon, and Sage moved to surround Marek, their backs to him in a small protective circle. Jono stood so close to Patrick he could feel the heat in the other man’s body. It was a nice reminder that he wasn’t alone, even if things might be easier if he was.

“I’m rethinking not listening to you for once,” Marek said in a hushed voice.

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you decided to tag along,” Patrick retorted.

“Still not your little soldier.”

“Shut. Up,” Sage told her lover through gritted teeth.

Movement caught Patrick’s eye, and he looked at where Carmen seemed to suddenly appear out of the shadows, her glamour gone once more. Her red pupils seemed to expand, burning like embers in her face. Einar stood beside her at the light’s edge, still her ever-attentive guard dog. Shadows moved in the dark behind them both, Patrick hard-pressed to track them.

“Where is he?” Patrick finally asked.

Carmen smiled, sharp teeth flashing in the light, and didn’t say a word. Patrick dropped his shields to find out for himself. Recognition of the undead was almost overwhelming, not because of the multitude of vampires he could sense surrounding them, but because of how deeply he knew their master.

Lucien was familiar in a way an infected wound was—weeping, rotten, and in danger of becoming gangrenous.

A figure slid free of the surrounding darkness, stepping into the light on cat-quiet feet. Tall, built lean under the heavy leather jacket he wore and hidden weaponry he never went anywhere without, Lucien hadn’t changed at all. Patrick could see that even from where he stood. The same brown hair, the same black eyes, the same ugly hatred in the snarl of his mouth—all of it familiar.

I really fucking hate reunions, Patrick thought to himself.

“Oh, shit,” Emma whispered behind him, the we are going to die tone easy for Patrick to pick out.

Lucien had that effect on people.

Those who’d come with Patrick tonight might not know who they faced, but their instincts knew the monster wrapped in pale, pale skin standing before them.

A thousand years ago, Lucien had lived the life of a soldier beneath William the Conqueror’s banner. He died on the battlefield and was born again by the mother of all vampires. He’d gone by many names over the centuries, but the one he carried now he’d favored for two hundred years or so.

Lucien was still riding high on everyone’s Top Ten Most Wanted Lists, no matter what name he went by. His notoriety these days came more from murder and mayhem, a weapons- and magic-trafficking empire, and money laundering rather than the fact he was an undead bloodsucking bastard.

“I didn’t ask Setsuna to call you,” Patrick said, breaking the heavy silence.

“I wouldn’t have come if she was the only one who begged,” Lucien replied. His accent was a flat thing ground down by time. He took on the inflections of the country he traveled in as easily as people changed clothes.

Lucien stalked forward with all the grace of a tiger hunting prey. The sheer, overwhelming sense of his presence made Patrick’s bones ache. Patrick stared Lucien down, because he’d never learned how not to, no matter how many bruises he ended up with at the end of their meetings. Running wasn’t an option.

It never had been with Lucien.

“Setsuna doesn’t beg.”

Lucien flashed his teeth in a disdainful snarl. It was met by a warning growl from Jono as the werewolf put himself between the master vampire and Patrick. For a second, Patrick could only stare at Jono’s back, too surprised to do anything but gape.

“Back off,” Jono warned Lucien.

“I don’t take orders from your kind,” Lucien said in a low voice. “This isn’t your territory. It’s not even your country. You are a long way from your home, wolf.”

Patrick grabbed Jono by the arm as he stepped around the other man. “What the hell, Jono? Didn’t I say let me do the talking?”

Jono never took his eyes off Lucien. “Tell me this vampire isn’t who I think he is.”

“Let’s go with yes, judging by the expression on your face.”

Patrick put himself between Jono and Lucien with barely a second to spare before Lucien went toe-to-toe with him. At five feet ten, Lucien was an inch taller than Patrick and stronger and faster in all the ways that mattered outside magic. Patrick tilted his head back just enough to meet Lucien’s gaze, ignoring how his heart raced uncomfortably fast in his scarred chest.

Warm hands settled on his hips, strong fingers holding on tight. Jono pressed himself against Patrick’s back, a powerful presence that shouldn’t have made his dick twitch like it did, but Jono was fucking distracting.

Patrick really couldn’t afford to be distracted right now.

“Running with wolves these days. That’s new,” Lucien said.

His breath was cold where it blew over Patrick’s face, the smell of it like old copper. Patrick kept his hands at his side and resisted the urge to reach for his dagger.

“Not by choice,” Patrick replied.

“That’s not new. Neither is the fact your current case will kill you.”

“Gonna dig me a grave?”

Lucien smiled, chapped lips cracking at the motion, but he didn’t bleed. “I don’t break my promises. Not like you.”

Patrick opened his mouth to argue, but the words never made it past his teeth. A cold hand wrapped around his throat the same instant the muzzle of a pistol pressed beneath his chin. Vampires had a speed matched by no one else in the preternatural world, a speed that gave birth to the stories that said they could fly.

A speed not even a werewolf could match.

“I wouldn’t,” Lucien said when Jono surged against Patrick’s body, reaching for the vampire. The shove of the weapon against Patrick’s jaw was enough to make Jono go immediately still. His wordless snarl was loud in Patrick’s ear, a heavy vibration through his ribs.

“Let him go,” Jono growled, his hands holding on to Patrick tight enough to bruise.

Lucien’s black eyes never blinked as he stared at Patrick. “No.”

Patrick swallowed against Lucien’s hard grip, still capable of breathing. That bit of leniency didn’t come out of the goodness of a heart that didn’t beat, but from a promise Lucien had made to Ashanti to keep Patrick alive.

Because of Ashanti, Lucien was still dogging Patrick’s steps when needed, even in sunlight. As one of the first immortals and a goddess in her own right, Ashanti’s rare ability to walk in sunlight and not be burned to ashes had manifested itself in only a handful of her direct descendants.

Ashanti had always been fiercely loved by her children. Most people didn’t know the mother of all vampires was dead because legends weren’t supposed to die. Funny how you could keep a story alive even after the subject was gone.

Patrick leaned into Lucien’s grip and the pistol, the pressure almost choking him. “I’m trying this new thing where I keep all my blood inside my body. Don’t ruin my winning streak, Lucien.”

Patrick was dimly aware of someone who wasn’t Jono swearing behind him, but most of his attention was focused on the vampire who literally held Patrick’s life in his hands.

Lucien’s grip tightened ever so slightly, and Patrick tried not to gag. “I haven’t missed working with you,” Lucien said in a low, hateful voice.

“You could’ve stayed where you were when Setsuna called, but you didn’t. You know what that tells me?” Patrick swallowed against the weight of the pistol against his body and the murderous promise in Lucien’s black eyes. “You’re going to fight with me, just like last time.”

“And is it like last time?”

Patrick didn’t blink. “No. Because we know what’s coming.”

“Just because you see it doesn’t mean you can stop it. Remember what it cost us when you couldn’t stand your fucking ground?”

Patrick flinched, thinking about Ashanti. About her Asanbosam stature that instilled so much fear in people. About her iron teeth and the bone hooks sheathed in steel caps that she’d walked the earth on for thousands and thousands of years. About the way she looked when she died, swallowed up by dry desert sand in an impossible sunburned heat, sacrificed to magic. How her body collapsed into ashes in the face of heavenly magic poured into the gods-made dagger she’d literally walked through hell to deliver to Patrick.

He hadn’t been able to save her, and Lucien would always, always blame Patrick for his mother’s death.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said for what felt like the thousandth time.

Apologies were meaningless to the dead and undead alike.

“One of these days, I will kill you,” Lucien promised, shoving the pistol harder against the underside of Patrick’s jaw.

“Fuck you, mate,” Jono said, the fury in his voice vibrating through his chest and into Patrick’s back. “Let him go before I rip your fucking face off.”

Patrick would’ve told him to shut up if he’d had the breath to spare.

“Does the wolf speak for you now?”

Patrick raised a hand and made a seesaw motion with it. “More like the Fates do. Couldn’t leave their favorite wolf behind.”

It wasn’t a threat, nor a warning, merely a fact Patrick didn’t mind sharing. However Lucien took it, it was enough to get him to finally back off.

Lucien’s fingers lifted off his throat one by one. The muzzle of the pistol skimmed up over his jaw to kiss his lips in a deadly promise before lifting away entirely. Patrick managed to draw in a single ragged breath before Jono was hauling him away from Lucien, putting space between them. Jono’s arms were strong around his body, holding him close as Patrick gingerly touched his throat with one hand.

“That’s gonna leave a bruise,” he muttered, voice coming out a little raspy.

When Patrick glanced up, Lucien was back by Carmen’s side, looking off into the darkness of the warehouse.

“Naheed, I require your presence,” Lucien called out.

Patrick tried taking a step forward, but Jono’s arms tightened, refusing to let him go. Patrick shot him an exasperated look. “You’re not helping, Jono.”

“You nearly got your head blown off by that fucker and you didn’t even fight him. You and your suicidal tendencies can sod off with me letting you go,” Jono retorted.

Patrick sighed in annoyance but figured this was one fight he clearly wouldn’t win without some effort. He focused instead on the woman with thick dark hair who came tottering into the light on wedge-heeled sandals, her summery sundress clean despite the filthy location. She led someone familiar by the hand, and Patrick made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Patrick demanded.

“What does it look like, Pattycakes? I’m delivering a message,” Hermes said as he sauntered forward.

Naheed let go of Hermes’ hand with a smile and picked her way daintily over to where Carmen stood. Her large blue-green eyes were curious, but she didn’t speak. Naheed was human, the necklace of scars on her throat proof of her status as a willing feeder to vampires. She was Lucien’s favorite meal, had been ever since Patrick first met her years ago.

Lucien had been given Naheed when she was a toddler as payment from a subjugated village in Afghanistan whose rulers didn’t want to become vampire fodder. She’d been hooked on opium at the age of three, along with her entire family, and had never known anything but addiction until Lucien claimed her. He’d cleaned her up because he had never liked the way drugs tasted in the blood of the humans he kept within his Night Court.

Marek pushed his way past Emma, an inner light glittering in the depths of his eyes. Emma grabbed him by the wrist and kept him from going any farther, but it seemed to take more strength than normal.

“Oh,” Marek said, not quite sounding like himself. “It’s you.”

Hermes placed one hand on his chest and bowed in Marek’s direction, the gesture surprisingly genuine. “Good evening, Skuld.”

Marek’s eyes washed out white, the shift in his voice frightening. “Cousin.”

Emma and Sage shared a bleak look while Leon’s expression remained unreadable. Patrick figured the three of them were well aware of what it meant when Fate took control of Marek’s life so thoroughly. Patrick really hoped the seer wouldn’t lose an entire color by the time this case was finished. He hated to think he’d be responsible for Marek getting that much closer to madness. All the money in the world couldn’t buy the seer sanity after a certain point.

Jono’s arms tightened around Patrick, warm hands skimming over his ribs through the T-shirt he wore. Patrick tried not to squirm.

“You don’t smell human, mate,” Jono said to Hermes.

Hermes winked at him, but there wasn’t any humor in the immortal’s face. “That’s because I’m not.”

“Then what are you?” Emma asked in a low voice. She still had hold of Marek, and the Fate inhabiting his body didn’t seem to mind.

Hermes ignored her in favor of wandering into Patrick’s personal space, not intimidated by Jono’s presence at all. He eyed the bruises Patrick could feel coming up on his throat and shook his head.

“You never learn, do you?” Hermes said.

Patrick dug in his heels when it felt like Jono was about to haul them both out of reach. Jono’s entire body went tense as Hermes leaned in and pressed his mouth to Patrick’s. Patrick could feel Jono growl more than hear it.

The kiss felt like static, an electric burn that crackled through his skin from lips to toes. Patrick would have gasped, but he didn’t want to give Hermes the satisfaction. Hermes kept up the pressure for a second or two but didn’t try to take anything more than a touch. When the immortal pulled away, he left behind healed skin and the ability for Patrick to swallow without feeling as if his throat was about to cave in.

“We need you in one piece,” Hermes told him.

Patrick touched his throat, the heat of bruises gone. “Knew it wasn’t because you cared.”

“Dionysus was in Atlantic City when he felt the call from the spell. He’s left the country to escape it. So has Artemis.”

“Not surprised. We cleaned up the focus of his sacrifice this morning. Who’s left?”

Hermes studied the chipped black polish on his nails, picking at a few of the ragged, bitten-down edges. “Does it matter? You have a job to do, Pattycakes.”

“Your misplaced faith will ruin you, Hermes,” Lucien said.

Hermes casually flipped the vampire off with one hand while making a lazy circle in the air with the other. The sound of coins clattering on the floor at Patrick’s feet reminded him of a Vegas casino’s slot machine cashing out a win.

Hermes pointed at the coins. “These are for you.”

Patrick toed one of the old Greek coins with the tip of his boot, the rough-hewn gold circle shining in the floodlights. “What are they for?”

“Payment for the dead.”

Patrick winced at the sound of Skuld’s voice coming out of Marek’s mouth. “Immortals don’t die.”

“We can be broken. We can be forgotten.”

“We can be used,” Hermes said in a low, vicious voice, eyes snapping with a fury that burned. “I don’t want to lose what belongs to me the same way Macaria did. Neither do I wish to become a conduit for power-hungry mortals the way Ra did.”

Patrick drew in a sharp breath at the sound of that goddess’ name, wishing his shields could hide the sound of how hard his heart was beating.

“Might I remind you the Dominion Sect used the pyramids in Giza to try to enslave him. We are nowhere near Greece and its relics for them to use you and your pantheon like that,” Carmen pointed out.

Hermes’ expression twisted into something monstrous for a split second before it smoothed away into the visage of a man once again. “You don’t need to be in our homeland here on the mortal plane for this spell to come to fruition.”

“Then what do they need?” Patrick asked.

Hermes spread his hands, his smile as sharp as knives. “Wonderful thing about America. People came from all over the world to build this country. They carried their beliefs and their gods with them to these shores. This city was built with hands that prayed to hundreds of deities. The Dominion Sect doesn’t need a several-thousand-year-old monument when they have skyscrapers.”

Patrick shrugged out of Jono’s arms with a little effort. He knelt and gathered up the coins, counting up an even twenty-four, two for each of the sacrifices tied to the zodiac spell. All the dead needed to pay the ferryman. He filled his pockets with the coins before straightening up.

Stepping around Hermes, Patrick headed for Marek and the immortal who would never let the seer go. She watched him come with a secretive twist to Marek’s mouth, the power drifting out of his aura deep and fathomless and entirely inhuman.

And yet, Emma still had not let go of him, as if Fate didn’t scare her one goddamn bit.

“Can you see the end?” Patrick asked Skuld bluntly once he stood in front of her and her vessel. “Can you see the future?”

Skuld didn’t blink, her eerie attention never wavering. “Not here. Not anymore. There are too many possibilities now that you are standing in the way, and my sight is not the only one searching for a new reality.”

The warning fell heavily between them, but Patrick refused to let it weigh him down.

“Then let Marek go. This isn’t his fight, it’s mine. That’s what all of you wanted, isn’t it? For me to fight?”

“Your acceptance doesn’t clear your soul debt.”

Patrick barked out a sound that in no way resembled laughter. “I’m well aware of what your side thinks I owe it. Let Marek go. It’s not him you want, it’s me, and you’ve got me.”

Skuld closed Marek’s eyes, and when they opened again, they were hazel once more—human eyes in a human face. Marek’s knees buckled, but Emma moved fast to catch him, holding him up with preternatural strength.

“I have him,” Emma said, her gaze shifting over Patrick’s shoulder for a quick moment. “Hurry it up, will you?”

Honestly, Patrick was so fucking done with tonight.

“We’re leaving,” he said loudly.

“You have until summer solstice,” Hermes warned. “Find a way to stop them.”

When Patrick turned around, Hermes was gone, having disappeared through the veil. The sudden quiet in the warehouse made his skin crawl. He stared across the lit-up space at where Lucien stood.

“Are we done?” Patrick asked.

Lucien turned his back dismissively on the group. “For now. I’ll contact you when the rest of the weapon shipments arrive. You and your magic aren’t enough to deal with this problem. You never have been.”

Patrick’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Right.”

Taking a trip down memory lane was never fun. If Patrick could bury his ghosts, he would. They just never stayed dead.

Patrick moved to sling Marek’s other arm over his shoulders, and all of them got the hell out of there. Jono and Leon guarded their retreat while Sage cleared them a path in the face of Lucien’s Night Court with a fearlessness that impressed Patrick.

They reached the exit and crossed the threshold. Patrick felt as if he could breathe again once they were outside Ginnungagap.

“I have such a headache,” Marek moaned.

Leon came up to take Patrick’s place, helping Emma carry Marek’s weight between them. Patrick pointed at the mouth of the alley. “Let’s go. I don’t trust what lives in the walls of this place.”

“You talk as if it’s alive,” Sage said.

“It’s something,” he muttered.

“Lucien is something,” Leon retorted, looking a little wild around the eyes. “Madre de Dios, Patrick. How the hell do you know that psychotic bastard?”

“Long story, highly classified. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

They cut down the alley for the street, huddling on the sidewalk amidst a nightlife that seemed out of place now. All the unsuspecting people out to have a good time were completely unaware of the monsters that had settled in their midst.

“We shouldn’t have asked for his help,” Sage said when they were half a block away.

“We are doing nothing,” Patrick retorted. “I am dealing with Lucien, not you.”

Marek flapped a hand at him, head tilted back, eyes closed. He looked drunk, providing the perfect cover for why the group was in the area. “Not alone.”

“I’m not getting rid of Jono, if that’s what you mean.”

“No.” Marek breathed in carefully through his nose, gritting his teeth against whatever pain was pounding through his head and body from channeling an immortal. “That’s not what I meant. You’re not fighting alone.”

“I have backup now.”

“Fucking illegal backup, is what it is,” Jono snapped. He reached for Patrick and carefully tilted his head back to get a better look at the now-healed skin on his throat. “That arsehole wanted to kill you.”

Patrick blinked up at him, trying not to lean into Jono’s touch, and failing just a little. “Lucien always wants to kill me. That’s nothing new.”

Everyone stared at Patrick with disbelieving looks on their faces. Well, everyone except Marek, who tipped forward and promptly got sick all over the pavement.

“We need to get Marek home. That shitshow in there gave him a migraine and probably caused him to lose another shade of color,” Leon said angrily.

“Think it affected red this time,” Marek slurred. “Your hair looks a little lighter, Patrick.”

Patrick ran a hand through his dark red hair. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault I was born like this.”

Sage reached out and touched Marek’s shoulder. “Let’s go. You need to relax for the rest of the weekend.”

“Aw, no. We’ll call Victoria. She’s gotta heal this. Your birthday party is tomorrow.”

“We can have it another weekend.”

Emma relinquished her spot beside Marek to Sage. Leon and Sage walked Marek a few cars down to his Maserati. Emma stayed put, a tiny, practically impenetrable wall between Patrick and her pack.

“What do you want?” Patrick asked tiredly.

Emma pursed her lips. “What’s really going on? And don’t give me some bullshit classified answer, Patrick. This isn’t the military. This is New York City. It’s our home. So tell me the truth.”

Emma was a force to be reckoned with. All stubborn fierceness, ready to attack any threat aimed at those she claimed as hers. Emma cared. In Patrick’s experience, that was always dangerous.

Patrick grimaced. “The truth is I can’t tell you. I can’t, Emma. But I need you to know I’m doing everything I can to make sure what I think is going to happen won’t.”

“By partnering with Lucien?”

“By using whatever methods I have to, no matter how illegal they are, to make sure this city is still standing at the end. I promised Casale that. I’ll promise you the same thing.”

“And if you break that promise?”

“Then it won’t matter, because we’ll all be dead.”

Emma stared at him for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh. She ran a hand through her thick black hair, messing up some of the loose curls she had it styled in. “Youssef and Estelle don’t want us to have any contact with you.”

“Okay? And?”

“You kept Marek safe,” she said quietly. “He’s mine and Leon’s best friend, the only family we have left after we got bitten. You didn’t think twice about throwing yourself between him and that demon the other night. You didn’t hesitate. I know a lot of people who would have.”

“Youssef and Estelle, to name a few,” Jono said, sounding irritated.

Emma didn’t protest that accusation. Patrick wondered just how many cracks existed in the werecreature community here that Jono could say that and Emma wouldn’t come to the god pack’s defense in the face of a rival god pack alpha.

“You don’t owe me this, Emma,” Patrick told her.

“This isn’t a debt,” she said. “This isn’t anything like whatever those immortals are holding over your head to get you to do their bidding. I’m offering because it’s the right thing to do. Because Marek is in deep already, and I’m not letting both of you drown in the problems that keep coming our way, no matter what Youssef and Estelle say. That’s what pack does, Patrick. That’s what pack is.”

The fierceness in her words had Patrick wishing he could believe what she offered came with no strings attached. But he knew nothing in life was free.

“I’m not pack,” he reminded her.

Emma glanced over at Jono. “I have a feeling that might be changing. Give me your phone number.”

Out of everything she could have asked for, it was the easiest thing to give up. They swapped phone numbers, and then Emma gave him an apologetic look. “I’d offer you a ride, but we’re out of seats.”

“I’ll call an Uber. Don’t worry about us. Just get Marek home behind that barrier ward.”

“Emma always worries. Right mother hen, is this one,” Jono said. His words came out fond though, and Emma beamed at him.

Jono wrapped Emma up in a strong hug. She snaked her hand over his neck, discreetly scent-marking him when they parted ways. The pack scent would fade within hours, and no one would know she’d done it, because Jono wasn’t going to be around other werecreatures for the rest of the night.

He gave Emma a crooked smile, and Patrick thought about what Jono had said in the café the other morning. How he’d left London without ever having a pack and been denied a chance at one here in New York City. How it looked as if Emma was more than willing to follow his orders instead of submitting to a god pack she didn’t trust.

Patrick wondered how many other packs in the five boroughs were in her same predicament.

Emma waved goodbye and hurried down the pavement for Marek’s car. He and Jono watched her get in and waited until they’d driven off before Patrick unlocked his phone to call an Uber.

The sooner he got to the apartment, the less he’d feel as if he had a target on his back in the shape of Lucien’s fangs.