Patrick’s feet connected with the ground, and his knees took the impact hard. Persephone kept him upright as they came out onto the dark banks of a river flowing beneath a gray sky. The wind howled over the water and across the gray wasteland that surrounded them. It chilled him worse than his mostly soaked clothes. Not even Persephone’s warm touch could drive the cold away.

The goddess pulled away and circled around to face him. Patrick’s fuzzy memory of her sharpened into focus. Persephone hadn’t changed at all, not in the years since he’d seen her when he was a child. Immortals never aged, not really, but that didn’t stop him from trying to find some differences in her face, some hint of the years he’d lived reflected back at him. But the immortal was as ageless and untouched as she had been when she’d saved him from dying beneath his father’s hands all those years ago.

In hindsight, it hadn’t been much of a rescue.

Patrick flashed back to that night in Salem, to the dark, bloody basement Persephone had pulled him out of. The memory only lasted the length of a heartbeat, but it felt like a lifetime.

He took a step toward her, ignoring the aches in his body from Cerberus’ hit. “Take me back right the fuck now. I can’t leave Jono behind. He’s supposed to stay with me.”

Persephone arched one dark eyebrow. “I am aware of what the Norns decreed, but I could not reach the wolf through Cerberus.”

“Bullshit. That mutt would’ve listened to you.”

She shrugged in the face of his anger. The wind tugged at the T-shirt she wore, the ragged threads of her denim cutoff shorts fluttering in the air. She wore sandals, but unlike Patrick, her feet weren’t sinking into the wet ground. Persephone’s golden-brown skin seemed to glow against the darkness surrounding them, as if she were the only bright spot in the realm of the dead.

Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and cheeks, her curly, dark brown hair like a halo around her face. She didn’t seem bothered at all by the wind or the bone-deep chill that called this place home.

“You are who I wish to speak with, and only you,” Persephone said.

Patrick tried to still the rabbit-fast beating of his heart, but the rage and fear he felt wasn’t dying down anytime soon. “Take me back.”

“In due time.”

Which was a fucking riot of a joke because immortals had more time to spare than anyone. Patrick was stuck here behind the veil in the Greek Underworld where time ran slower than it did on Earth. Depending on the plane, time could also run faster, as in Underhill. Either way, Patrick couldn’t afford to lose even a single second. The quicker he got this reunion over with, the sooner he could get back to the mortal plane and the fight waiting for him.

The quicker he’d get back to Jono.

“Just let me go back. Please.”

“I see you still desire the same thing as when you were here as a child. Do you think this time you will find something different on the mortal plane when you return?”

Patrick flinched, thinking of Jono, thinking bleakly, Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.

He’d begged for the same result when it came to his twin sister years ago. Only when he came out of the veil into Ashanti’s waiting arms in Washington, DC, his life in Salem was forever lost to him.

“You don’t care about what I think, Persephone. Say what you want to say so I can get out of here.”

Persephone’s gaze was heavy-lidded and knowing. “My husband has always been a single-minded bastard. I love him, I always will, but I do not appreciate him attempting to do to me what he allowed to happen to his daughter. Zeus will not forgive him this time.”

“It wasn’t just your husband last time.”

“And it is not him alone now.”

Patrick chewed on his bottom lip until he tasted blood. Persephone’s statement was all the confirmation he needed to know that when he made it back through the veil, Ethan would be waiting for him.

And so would Hannah.

Persephone settled her hands on her hips, cocking her head to the side as she studied him. “I will not apologize for saving you.”

“I was eight,” Patrick bit out. “I was dying.”

“I healed you.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You offered life to a dying child, but you never said you would own me when I begged for your help. That’s not healing, Persephone. That’s enslavement.”

“Your father and his ilk stole Macaria’s godhead when they had no right to take what they can never own.”

“Owning me won’t bring her back as she was.”

Persephone stepped closer and pressed her hands to his chest, right over the scars. “Who better to stop your father than his own son? The magic the Dominion Sect covets is old, Patrick. It is primordial. It is ours, but they use it against us when they can find us. So we will use you to break the ones perpetuating this blasphemy through blood.”

“Killing one won’t stop them all. There is no stopping a group like that by taking out a single person, even if that person comes from a founding family.”

“Your father is attempting to turn himself into a god who will head up a new pantheon, build a new myth, and rule over a new hell. He failed in Salem with Macaria. He nearly succeeded in Cairo with Ra. He tries again in New York City with Zeus. Ethan is too prideful to ever share that glory with someone else.”

Deep down, Patrick knew she was right. Ethan had always been ambitious during his years rising in the ranks of the SOA until his true allegiance was brought to light. That ambition had proven useful to the Dominion Sect.

It took a mix of blood magic, necromancy, and soultakers to carve a godhead from an immortal’s body and soul. The essence of a god was too powerful for mortals to carry alone, but Ethan had been determined to try. Both Patrick and Hannah were supposed to die for their father’s ambitions the same way their mother had.

Except he hadn’t died because Persephone had found him and stolen him away to the Underworld. Her interference had broken the spell his father had sought to complete, taking Patrick’s soul and blood out of the sacrificial circle. In the end, Macaria’s godhead had been transferred into Hannah’s soul instead of Ethan’s, and his twin was now forever bound to their father. The feedback loop between their souls and the siphoning off of her power to Dominion Sect acolytes kept Hannah’s body from dying. As for Macaria, she wasn’t dead and gone, but she might as well be in the eyes of the Greek pantheon.

When it came down to it, Patrick had never truly escaped that basement. Part of him was still standing in a grave.

“Then maybe you gods should get rid of the problem yourselves,” Patrick finally said, shoving old memories aside.

“Your father has immortal allies the same way you do.”

“Ethan is not my father, and you are no ally.”

Persephone gave him a derisive look, her gold-brown eyes burning straight through him. “That is what you take away from this conversation? Half his blood runs through your veins.”

Patrick took a step back, putting distance between them. Pebbles shifted around his feet, and the wind snaked its way beneath his jacket, icy and sharp. “A father is more than blood. You immortals never seem to understand that.”

“We understand family and the trials that come with them far more than you mortals do.”

Persephone reached for him again, her fingers brushing against his cold cheek before he turned his face away. Looking out over the River Styx, Patrick could just make out a hazy, bobbing light coming closer out of the gloom.

“You wanted the arms of your mother when you were a child bleeding at my feet. You wanted kindness,” Persephone said with all the gentleness of an iron brand searing skin. “Nothing in war is ever kind, Patrick.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, taking in a steadying breath. She spoke a truth he’d lived through but which never got any easier to accept. Patrick knew what death looked like on the battlefield, delivered by his own hands or others. He knew how this fight he’d been sacrificed to as a child had colored his life and bled into his nightmares over the years. Patrick had begged Persephone to save him from the mortal wounds Ethan had inflicted on him. He hadn’t known what he was giving up back then.

He knew now.

A debt was owed and owned. Patrick would not pay that price again.

“Look at me.”

The powerful command in her voice snaked its way through his mind, and Patrick could only obey. He opened his eyes, turning to face Persephone once again. She didn’t speak, not at first, the expression on her beautiful face unreadable.

“Your shields are damaged. The wards I set in your bones need resetting,” she finally said.

“Blame the coins Hermes gave me. They wrecked my magic.”

Her magic had kept him hidden so he could stay alive through the years. The anchor points she’d carved into bone helped confine the taint in his magic and his aura to his body, leaving no trace as he traveled through the world. Her foundation for his shields had never been easy to carry.

Persephone placed her hand over his scarred heart, her touch warm in this cold place. “Remember to breathe.”

Magic burned through Patrick’s body like a flash-fire, and he choked on a scream. His knees went out from under him as molten heat twisted through every last bone in his body. He could feel Persephone’s magic branding him deep inside, the pain of the casting something Patrick had forgotten.

He could’ve done without the reminder.

Persephone rebuilt the foundation she’d laid into his body once before, and Patrick could only breathe through the agony. When it was over, he felt light-headed and hollowed out, every movement of his body a painful reminder of the debt he carried. The throbbing in every inch of his body and brain was worse than the hit from Cerberus.

She pulled Patrick to his feet with strong hands, holding him steady with a care that would be more meaningful if it was directed at his own well-being.

He knew it wasn’t.

“What will you ask of me this time to leave these shores, I wonder?” Persephone mused as she brushed back his dark red hair.

Patrick licked his lips, mouth dry and tasting of coppery blood. “I ask nothing. I’ll pay my own way.”

The hull of Charon’s boat wedged itself against the shoreline nearby, the brackish waters of the River Styx splashing against the old gray bones that made up the vessel’s shape. The prow of the boat was formed with skeletal hands, thin finger bones curled together, as if climbing out of the dark waters. At the top of the prow sat an old skull gripped by bony hands, a soft, eerie glow floating behind broken teeth and within dark eye sockets.

The ferryman was shrouded in ragged black robes, cowl pulled low over his face, casting him in shadow. Charon’s gnarled hands and bony fingers held an ancient wooden pole topped with a human skull. It, too, held light within the empty eye sockets and gaping jaws. The skin of the immortal’s hands was gray and pulled taut over his bones, almost desiccated in appearance.

Persephone rose up on her tiptoes, cupping the back of Patrick’s head to pull him down within reach. She pressed her lips to his forehead, the gentle touch a benediction he wanted no part of.

“Fight for us. Return Macaria to me. Do your duty and you may yet find your freedom,” she murmured. “You may yet find peace.”

Peace was a gift this war had yet to offer. Patrick couldn’t accept what no one else had.

He walked away from Persephone and the tricky, slippery promises immortals always offered in exchange for a life.

Patrick pulled out the second to last Greek coin rattling around in his pocket and slipped it between his teeth. He held it there, tasting metal on his tongue as he splashed through brackish water and climbed into Charon’s boat. He sat down on the bone bench, staring at the ferryman with defiant eyes.

One bony hand lifted off the pole to reach for him. Icy fingers brushed against his lips when they pried the payment from Patrick’s teeth. The ferryman brought the coin to his own mouth, shrouded in shadow, and swallowed the payment whole.

Patrick didn’t look back as Charon gripped the pole and separated his boat from the shore with a strong push. They glided forward over the depths of the River Styx, Charon ferrying him to the other side. Fog rose up to white out the world so completely Patrick could barely make out the ferryman after a while. Fog clung to the boat and his wet clothes, sliding into his lungs with every breath he took.

Only when the boat hit against the opposite shore, rocking him on the bench, did Patrick feel like he could breathe again. Charon made a wide gesture with one arm, one finger uncurling to point beyond the boat. Patrick clambered over the side and splashed into the calf-deep water. His combat boots felt waterlogged as he trudged out of the River Styx and into the edges of the veil.

Three strides got him past the water’s edge. Two more strides and Charon disappeared. All that surrounded Patrick was thick gray fog that went on forever. He couldn’t orient himself at all, and panic began to settle in his chest.

Then long fingers wrapped around his wrist, dragging him forward up the sudden sloping ground and into an iron jungle.

“This way,” Hermes called out.

Rain melted the fog away, pounding down on Patrick’s head and shoulders as they stumbled into the middle of Times Square. The wind hit him hard enough to drive him back a step on the famous meridian. The illuminated red staircase was behind them, empty of tourists. Patrick tried to blink his vision clear, but the bright lights of the famous intersection made his vision worse.

The usual crowds had disappeared in the face of the reactionary storm, leaving behind strangely empty streets only a handful of taxis braved. Some of the stores and chain restaurants were open, but many more were shuttered against the vicious weather.

Patrick looked up at the night sky and the black clouds hanging low and angry over New York City. “Tell me it’s still Monday night.”

“You went across the veil. You know I can’t tell you that,” Hermes said, his faded dyed blue curls pressed flat against his skull from the downpour. Unlike Hades, he didn’t seem to care if he got drenched or not. “It’s summer solstice.”

Which meant Patrick had lost a day, because it was Tuesday night and he didn’t know what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

He didn’t know if Jono was still alive, and Patrick desperately needed that answer to be yes.

“Where is everyone?”

Hermes smiled grimly. “Where do you think?”

A faint tremble ran through the ground. North of them, bright above the jagged skyline, Patrick could just make out an orange glow that seemed to flicker like a pulsar star. Patrick didn’t need his magic to know what was coming. He grabbed Hermes, barely getting the warning out in time as a powerful wave of magic rolled over Manhattan.

“Shield!” Patrick yelled.

Hermes might not have a coven worshipping him into a shadow of what he once was, but he was still a god. He still had magic at his command. Hermes raised a hand, eyes sparking gold as he formed a shield between them and the metaphysical power crashing through Manhattan.

Hell-tainted magic broke over them in a hit that seemed to freeze time. The rain stilled in its fall, trillions of drops just hovering in the air around Times Square, refracting the neon lights around them like crystal. In the clouds above, lightning crawled to an unimaginable stillness. It lasted only for an instant before the magic was sucked after the leading edge of the wave, causing the rain to fall back down to earth again with a roar.

That wasn’t the only thing that came down.

The air crackled with static, the sharp smell of ozone burning hot all around them. Patrick instinctively ducked as a massive bolt of lightning cut through the sky toward the earth. It struck the famous tower of screens behind them with enough force the ground shook. Thunder nearly deafened Patrick as crackling blue light exploded away from the ruined electronics, glass shards flying through the air like shrapnel.

The wind spun metal and glass through the air with frightening force. Patrick spared a single glance over his shoulder at the now-darkened and damaged tower of screens. An ugly black scorch mark three stories tall was seared down the front of the wall of electronics. Whatever electrical fire might have started from the strike sputtered out in the deluge from the storm.

Hermes’ shield held steady against the onslaught. He dragged his attention away from the sky to meet Patrick’s gaze. “It’s starting.”

“No fucking shit,” Patrick snapped. “I need to get to Central Park.”

Hermes rolled his eyes. “I am aware of that, Pattycakes.”

The immortal dropped his shield; rain and wind once more hit Patrick. He squinted through the rain, movement coming down Broadway catching his eye. The motorcyclist was driving at unsafe speeds for the weather, but they didn’t seem to care about that or the actual street lanes.

The motorcycle jumped the curb and braked to a stop on the cement meridian moments later, tires spinning against the slick ground as the back wheel spun around in an arc. With one foot on the ground, the driver kept their balance and the motorcycle under control as it slid in a semicircle.

The driver straightened up, helmet on but visor up. It would be impossible to see anything in this weather through the tinted, hard plastic polymer. Nadine’s keen brown eyes stared at them through the opening.

“Marek said you would be back. Now gear up and let’s go,” she said.

Nadine tossed Patrick the duffel bag secured to the seat behind her. It hit the wet ground between them with a heavy thud. Patrick knelt with a pained grunt, the lingering ache from Cerberus’ hit and Persephone’s painful touch stiffening his body, but he was good at working through pain.

He pulled out a tactical vest and hard helmet, along with one of the M4A1 carbines they’d put together back at Ginnungagap, as well as two extra magazines. Patrick pulled everything on in record time before slinging himself across the back of the motorcycle. He wrapped his arms around Nadine’s waist and settled his boots on the footrests.

“I need a sitrep!” he yelled over the sound of the storm.

“Later!”

Nadine revved the engine and twisted her hands on the handles before the motorcycle shot forward with a skidding lurch, water spinning off its wheels. Patrick looked back only once, unsurprised to see Hermes had disappeared.

Patrick faced forward and concentrated on keeping his balance in tune with Nadine’s as she sped down Broadway, heading for Central Park. She didn’t care about traffic laws and drove through intersections and down the opposite lanes whenever she had to get around what vehicles were still on the road. The closer they got to Central Park, the more crowded the streets became with first responders and the media.

Nadine veered sharply to the right, directing the motorcycle up onto the sidewalk to drive down it for the last two blocks, angling northwest. She revved the engine constantly, warning people out of her way, but no one wearing an NYPD uniform tried to stop her. A minute later she drove off the sidewalk and cut through a thin gap in the crowd of police clad in riot gear gathered in Columbus Circle. She aimed the motorcycle for a cluster of people standing outside a Mobile Command vehicle set-up in the street.

Patrick’s teeth clacked together when she braked to a halt. He scanned the faces turning their way, finally seeing a familiar one. Casale stepped forward, a tall Indian woman Patrick knew on sight if not personally right by the chief’s side. Whereas Casale was in uniform beneath an NYPD rain slicker, the woman was in civilian clothes with an SOA jacket zipped to her throat. Her dark hair was tied back in a tight braid, dark brown eyes calm and cool, despite the situation.

“Where the hell have you been?” Casale demanded.

“Doesn’t matter. I need a sitrep,” Patrick said.

SOA Deputy Director Priya Kohli stepped forward, handing Patrick a waterproof earwig and radio set. “Special Agent Collins.”

Patrick nodded, resisting the urge to salute. “Ma’am.”

“Channel One is command. Channel Two is general operations. You and Special Agent Mulroney have access to Channel One and override authorization.”

He took the miniscule radio and clipped it to the front of his tactical vest before slipping the earwig into his left ear. He switched it on and listened to the general channel before tapping the radio to switch to the command channel.

“Special Agent Collins to command. Confirm connection, over,” he said.

It was on the tip of Patrick’s tongue to switch his designation to the call sign he’d used in the military. Except this wasn’t a military operation, and his military record was a whole lot of classified.

The line crackled in his ear before someone responded with “This is command confirming connection, over.”

“Copy, command.” Patrick focused on Priya now that he was in radio contact with those in charge. “Surprised to see you here, ma’am.”

“Director Abuku sent me to assess and shield the nexus and to liaise with the PCB in your continued absence,” Priya replied.

“Who did you bring with you?”

“Half the Rapid Response Division out of DC who could be spared have been pulled for this situation. All agents are on the ground around Central Park, but we can’t get through the barrier ward.”

She pointed at the line of trees and greenery making up the edge of Central Park that now resided behind a glimmer of dark red-orange light Patrick could only see if he looked out of the corner of his eye.

“Our team is in position,” Nadine said as she took off her motorcycle helmet. She handed it to the nearest SOA agent, who exchanged it for a hard helmet that Nadine secured with practiced fingers. “We managed to get them inside before the barrier ward closed off all access.”

Which meant Lucien, his Night Court, and the Tempest pack were inside Central Park with no magic user at hand and only spelled weapons and artifacts to fight with. Patrick knew that wouldn’t be enough, not against Ethan.

“Who is on the ground with you?” Casale wanted to know.

“Werewolves and vampires. All friendly. Radio your people not to shoot them,” Patrick replied.

“Vampires? Are you serious? I know they can’t be from the Night Courts here because Tremaine doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and none of the other vampires who claim territory in New York City will cross him.”

“The undead can’t feed off demons. They have as much incentive to keep hell off the mortal plane as we do.”

“How did you pull them in?”

Patrick went with the best lie he had. “Their leader is a criminal informant of mine.”

“Jesus.” Casale pried his radio off his belt. “I’ll pass the word on.”

Patrick nodded before asking the question he’d been wanting an answer to since crossing the veil. “Where’s Jono?”

Nadine finished speaking into her comms to the SOA agents about not shooting the friendlies before saying, “I was hoping he’d be with you.”

Patrick’s stomach twisted, and he shook his head. “We were ambushed while setting the coins at the north cardinal point.”

He couldn’t elaborate on how or by whom, not with everyone listening in, but Nadine could read between the lines. She bit her lip, eyes searching out his. “We found Marek’s car at Inwood Hill Park, but no signs of either of you until Marek told me to head to Times Square.”

The thought of Ethan having Jono within reach for even a minute was enough to make him feel ill. A day was too much.

Please don’t let me be too late, he thought.

Patrick looked at Priya. “Are you shielding the nexus right now?”

Priya hadn’t gone into the military, but that didn’t change the fact she was a powerful mage with an affinity for defensive magic. “I have mages creating breakwaters in the ley lines, but whoever is behind this spell has majority control of the nexus. I’m doing what I can.”

“The barrier shield linked to the cardinal points is holding,” Nadine said.

One good thing in this mess wasn’t enough to erase the bad.

“The Dominion Sect will be calling up soultakers. You’ll want ESU to cover any possible exit out of the park in case any of those fuckers get past us. No matter what happens, you keep your people out of the park,” Patrick ordered Casale.

Casale scowled. “We should be in there stopping this.”

“If you inundate the park with police, you’re just asking for a mess of friendly fire. This has been a federal investigation since you brought the SOA on board, which means SOA agents are the only ones going in. They have the training and the magic to handle the threat.”

He hoped. Honestly, Patrick would be far happier calling in an air strike right about now, but something told him the public wouldn’t appreciate that plan of action.

“I’ll hold some of our mages in reserve to help monitor the nexus and prepare for the worst. The rest of our agents will follow you into the fight,” Priya said.

“Let’s hope the worst doesn’t happen.” Patrick never took his eyes off Casale. “You gave me a week, remember? It hasn’t been a week yet. I promised you I’d leave this city still standing after everything was over. I’m keeping that promise, Casale.”

Lightning cut across the sky above, thunder rumbling through the air. Casale let out a heavy breath. The rain fell from the brim of Casale’s police-issued cap like a waterfall. “I’m holding you to that.”

Patrick nodded and wrapped his arms around Nadine’s waist again. “Let’s go, Mulroney.”

“That shield won’t break. We’ve tried everything,” Priya warned.

The last Greek coin in Patrick’s pocket and the heavens-backed dagger strapped to his thigh were the only warm points on his body. He dug out the coin, holding it tightly in his fist.

“Not everything.”

“Next time we’re calling in a tank. Maybe your old team,” Nadine said as she revved the motorcycle’s engine and kicked them forward. “I wouldn’t be averse to some heavy ordnance right now.”

“You and me both,” Patrick shouted over the wind.

She drove them toward Central Park, picking up speed as they followed the curve of the roundabout to the corner entrance. The crowd of police officers flashed by in a blur, backlit by the red-and-blue lights flashing in the streets behind their ranks. Patrick felt the coin burning against his skin, magic seeping out from between his fingers until it looked like he was holding a fiery star.

Nadine straightened out and pointed them at the barrier ward surrounding Central Park, never wavering from her path. Patrick reared back and put all his strength into the throw. The last Greek coin streaked through the air, trailing heavenly magic behind it. When it hit the barrier ward mere seconds before they did, the explosion sent broken, molten bits of magic flying everywhere.

Nadine shielded them from the backwash of the barrier ward’s disintegration, the damage spreading out like a sizzling domino effect. The burn of recognition seared Patrick’s soul now that nothing stood between them and Central Park. He swallowed hard against the bitterness in the back of his throat, hell the only thing he could sense around them in the urban greenery.

“Ready?” Nadine yelled over her shoulder.

“Ready,” Patrick yelled back, because he had no other choice.

He never did.

His soul debt was always going to be do or die.