“You can’t take me off the case,” Patrick argued. “I’m running it now.”

Casale pointed at the smoldering remains of the rental car and two squad cars. The vehicles were currently being doused by a witch with an affinity for water magic instead of the FDNY for security purposes. Casale had dispatched a couple of other PCB witches whose affinity with defensive wards were strong to work with the bomb squad on clearing the area.

“Someone just tried to kill you,” Casale said.

“They did a shitty job of it since I’m still breathing.”

Jono made a strangled noise in the back of his throat that both Patrick and Casale ignored.

“I take personal offense to someone targeting the people working my cases. I know I can’t take you off the case; I just need you safe. You’re no good to me dead, Collins.”

Casale had a point, even if Patrick didn’t like it. “This isn’t the first time I’ve survived a bomb scare.”

“That doesn’t make this situation better,” Jono interjected.

“I need you alive to finish this job, not dead in the street from another bomb. You are not handling the processing of this crime scene and are getting the hell out of sight of the media,” Casale told him.

Patrick resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the cluster of news vans parked at the far end of the street, the cameras pointed their way.

“Fucking rats,” he muttered under his breath.

He really, truly hated dealing with the media.

Casale jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Ramirez and Guthrie will drive you back to the PCB or wherever you’re staying.”

“PCB,” Patrick said. “I’m not done working.”

Just because someone had tried to murder him didn’t mean Patrick had time to take a break.

Minutes later, Patrick and Jono climbed into the back of Allison and Dwayne’s unmarked police car. He slouched in the seat after buckling up, leaning his head back. He ached, right down to his bones, a gritty, low-grade pain that stemmed from the shredded pieces of his soul and partially drained magic, courtesy of the soultaker. He needed a couple of days of uninterrupted rest to heal both problems, but at this rate, Patrick doubted he’d get any.

“Where’s Marek?” Patrick asked when they were halfway to the PCB.

“Home. He’s watching the morning news about the murder and the attack. Nothing has tripped your ward,” Jono said, looking up from his phone and the text messages on the screen.

Patrick closed his eyes. “He better stay there.”

Jono kept quiet in the face of that statement. The other man couldn’t speak for Marek, and Marek seemed to do whatever the hell he liked, no matter Patrick’s warnings. If Patrick had been born a seer, he wouldn’t have any faith in an immortal to keep himself safe and always one step ahead of danger.

Allison and Dwayne didn’t try to engage either of their passengers with conversation on the drive back to the PCB. This morning’s double whammy of murder and attempted murder had put people on edge. Patrick was thankful for the quiet, if only so he could think. The case was racking up bodies like a bookie accrued debts, and he’d almost been added to the mix.

What am I missing? Patrick thought.

The Dominion Sect had stolen souls in sacrifices to the gods. While New York City had a nexus pooled beneath its streets and subways, it didn’t have a relic of an altar to hold the structure of the spell in place. No pyramids, no shrine, no temple, no anything from the old world and the even older religions which shored up the lives of the immortals.

Patrick couldn’t get ahead of what he didn’t know, and he needed to.

“Come on,” Jono said when Allison and Dwayne dropped them off in front of the PCB. “Let’s find you some food.”

Patrick thought about arguing, but the sound of his stomach growling ended that fight before it began. “Fine.”

Midmorning on a Saturday downtown meant the usual weekday crowds had disappeared. Jono steered him to a deli that was still open one block away that served thick sandwiches, soups, and salads. The building it resided in was one of the older ones taking up space in the Manhattan skyline.

Patrick ordered a roast beef sandwich with all the fixings, a bag of chips, and a Gatorade. Jono got double the amount Patrick ordered, and they returned to the PCB with their lunch. The sergeant on desk duty buzzed them through without comment. Patrick led Jono to the same conference room he’d worked out of yesterday.

The room was thankfully empty, and they spread their food out on the table. Jono took off his sunglasses and set them down nearby, along with his cell phone. Patrick unwrapped his sandwich and took a hearty bite, hoping the faint headache he had would go away if he fed it.

Patrick was halfway through his sandwich before he finally asked the question that had been swirling around his head for a while now. “How did you know the explosion was about to happen?”

Because Jono had grabbed him before the sound of the explosion even reached Patrick’s ears. Even now, what stood out in sharp relief in Patrick’s memories was the heat of Jono’s touch.

“I smelled it when the spell ignited,” Jono said.

Patrick knew hellfire had a distinctive smell, so it was no surprise Jono was able to react so quickly. The werevirus altered their souls and bodies, making their enhanced senses highly sought after by the US Department of the Preternatural. Patrick had worked with a handful of out werecreatures who weren’t god pack in the Preternatural Infantry during his time in the military. Teams relied on werecreatures to clear hot areas of land mines, spell traps, and embedded enemy fighters. The threats could be metaphysical or human-made, but werecreatures were adept at sniffing them out.

Patrick popped a potato chip into his mouth and crunched his way through the cheesy flavor. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for saving your arse, Pat.”

“All the same. If I didn’t have my shields up, I would’ve been dead. So the gesture is appreciated.”

Jono looked up from unwrapping his second sandwich. “I don’t know many magic users who carry their shields in their bones.”

It was a careful, curious statement, but it still made Patrick’s shoulders tighten. He kept his gaze trained on the chips he’d poured out on the paper wrapper. He thought about giving Jono the cold shoulder, but doing so would make their time together during the case more stressful. Patrick didn’t need any more stress in his life.

Most magic users didn’t power permanent personal shields. It took too much energy, too much magic, even at a low-grade level. Patrick’s personal shields hadn’t been set by him, but by a goddess to help hide the taint in his soul from prying eyes. Since the Thirty-Day War, they’d also hidden the damage his soul had accrued in that fight.

They hid him, in all the ways that mattered, but a part of Patrick didn’t want to hide from Jono. He blamed wanting to get laid—badly—but Patrick owed the other man, even if a soul debt wasn’t in the cards between them.

“I was Mage Corps, like you guessed in the car,” Patrick said, not blinking. “Metaphysical wounds are just as bad as the physical ones. I’d argue worse, in some ways. You can’t see damage to a person’s soul like you can to their body.”

Jono’s wolf-bright eyes never left his. “Your magic smells odd. Not bad, just odd. Suppose that’s due to a soul wound?”

Patrick shrugged, mouth dry, but he got the words out anyway. “I took a hit three years ago in a fight. It was bad. I lost the ability to tap a ley line or a nexus.”

Some of his detractors within the SOA considered Patrick a mage in name only. It didn’t matter that he had more magic in his soul than the strongest practitioner who couldn’t tap a ley line. Since he couldn’t access external magic, some people argued he should no longer carry the rank of a mage within the agency. A title didn’t make a person though, and Patrick had a lifetime of magical training under his belt only another mage would understand.

In the end, Patrick kept his rank, kept his job, even if it felt like he was missing an arm some days.

“Can you alter your shields a bit? Make it so I can smell you?” Jono asked.

“My magic isn’t the easiest to be around,” Patrick said. He knew how his magic felt to others—knew no one liked it.

Jono never looked away when he said, “It doesn’t bother me.”

Patrick paused in reaching for his sandwich again, pinned by Jono’s steady gaze. “I doubt that.”

“Your magic has a bitter scent to it, but that’s loads better than half the things I smell walking down the street at any given hour. Enhanced senses aren’t always easy to live with. I smelled the hellfire bomb, but I couldn’t smell you until you lifted your shields. In a fight, I want to know where you are.”

Patrick let out a dry bark of laughter. “Sounds like you want to watch my six.”

“If that’s what they call it these days, then yes.”

Patrick picked up his sandwich and took a bite, not trusting his immediate response to Jono’s answer. Three years ago he’d left the Mage Corps and his team behind because he couldn’t protect them the way he needed to anymore. Since joining the SOA, he’d worked alone, with no partner to watch his back. If he was honest, it got tiring. Hunting a serial killer with a werewolf would be a lot easier than trying to do it alone.

Patrick mentally shifted his personal shields, feeling magic ripple through his skin in a tingling sensation. The layers became porous enough to allow scent through and nothing else. Jono took a deep breath, the sound loud in the room, despite the bull pen beyond the closed door.

“Cheers, mate,” Jono said quietly.

“You realize I’m gone at the end of this case, right?” Patrick said.

“I don’t think the Fates will be pleased about that.”

Patrick made a face. “Yeah, well, fuck the Fates. Fuck this entire day.”

Jono laughed, the sound going straight to Patrick’s dick. Jono gave him a knowing look, and Patrick resigned himself to Jono attempting to read his emotions through scent until he got on a plane out of there.

They finished their lunch, and Patrick went to retrieve the case files containing the murders and the missing person case to review again. The Cirillo file was thinner than all the rest, but the missing person report itself was fairly detailed. Patrick’s attention kept drifting back to the photo of the couple. They weren’t familiar, but they were a problem.

Gods always were.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number on the business card in the file. It rang twice before a young-sounding woman picked up. “Isadora Cirillo’s line.”

Patrick assumed he got her assistant. “Is Mrs. Cirillo available?”

“Can I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Special Agent Patrick Collins with the Supernatural Operations Agency. I’m working with the NYPD on her husband’s missing person case.”

“One moment.”

The line went blank in the way of being put on hold. Patrick waited maybe thirty seconds before the call picked up again and a different, richer voice filtered through the speaker. Patrick tightened his grip on his phone.

“Patrick,” Isadora said, with far too much familiarity in her voice.

He thought about Hermes’ message in his now-destroyed car, and the implications of the relationship Hermes had with the woman speaking on the other line.

“Mrs. Cirillo, I presume,” Patrick said carefully.

“I expected the SOA to get involved. I didn’t think they would send you.”

Patrick rubbed at his eyes until spots burst across his the back of his eyelids. “I don’t know you.”

“Then I suppose it’s time we were introduced. My office is closed tomorrow. You’ll meet me at my hearth and home instead.”

“Will I?” Patrick asked, glaring down at the business card and a name he doubted was real.

“It is the least you owe me and mine.”

He tried not to flinch at her words, but it was hard. Patrick had an idea of who he would be meeting when he knocked on her door. Either way, he wasn’t looking forward to it. “What’s your address?”

Isadora gave it to him, then hung up. Patrick set his phone on the table and tossed the business card aside. It landed on a photograph of a body, hiding the carved-open chest cavity.

People were dying with signs carved into their eyelids for a reason. The reason wouldn’t be found in the case files at the PCB. It could only be found in Patrick’s past. It was his job to tie it all together, but he really didn’t fucking want to.

Doing so would make the nightmare real.

When he dragged his gaze away from the files scattered over the table, he found Jono staring at him with a quiet intensity that made him tense up.

“What?” Patrick asked defensively.

“Hope you don’t plan on going alone,” Jono said.

Patrick wondered what the Fates would do if he left Jono by the wayside. “I’ll decide in the morning.”

Jono wasn’t impressed with that answer, but he let the argument drop. Patrick went back to digging through the case files, because some days the dead were easier to deal with than the living.

Setsuna called him in the late afternoon, her name on his cell phone’s screen breaking his concentration. Patrick abandoned the detailed photos of dead bodies in favor of answering. Across from him, Jono looked up from his phone, head tilting to the side.

“A car bomb? Really?” Setsuna asked in lieu of the traditional hello.

“Military grade. Ruined my rental and two other nearby vehicles. The hellfire caused a small fire on the roof of the building, but the wards kept it from burning anything critical.”

“Nothing you couldn’t handle since you’re still breathing.”

“I told Casale that. He didn’t take it too well.”

“He doesn’t know you like I do.”

“Sometimes I wish you didn’t know me at all.”

“We can’t change the past, Patrick. The future is what we need to worry about. I’m calling to tell you one out of two of your task force is in town. They’ll meet with you tonight.”

Some of the tension in Patrick’s shoulders eased, but only a little. “Where?”

“They’ll find you, so make yourself available. And Patrick?”

“Yes?”

“Stay alive.”

Setsuna hung up. Patrick pulled his phone away from his ear and scowled at it.

“She sounds like a right lovely lady,” Jono drawled.

Patrick snorted and put his phone away. “A lovely pain in my ass, that’s for sure.”

He started putting the files back together so he could put them away. Jono watched him curiously. “Are we leaving?”

“She said make myself available. I can’t be available inside the PCB, so yeah, we’re leaving.”

“Where?”

Patrick ran through his options and discarded most of them in seconds. He didn’t know who might be watching the apartment, the SOA office downtown was out of the question, and Marek’s apartment was impossible to reach because of the barrier ward. Setsuna’s order to make himself available gave Patrick an idea on who was coming.

And if he was right, he’d rather they meet in public.

“Is Tempest open tonight?” Patrick asked.

Jono nodded. “Tyler managed to cleanse the bar. It’s back open for business. I usually work weekend nights, but Emma is giving me paid time off until this is all over.”

“Then let’s go. After what happened this morning, I need a goddamn drink.”

Patrick put away the files in their assigned cabinet before they left the PCB, a look-away ward burning through a mageglobe in Patrick’s hand.

“Bit paranoid, aren’t you?” Jono asked as they started walking.

“Keeps me alive.”

Patrick didn’t drop his look-away ward until they were two blocks away. It faded between one step and the next, everyone’s awareness of their presence sliding through them, as if they’d been there all along.

“Want me to get an Uber?” Jono asked. “It’ll be a quick ride to Tempest from here.”

Patrick shook his head. “We don’t want quick. We want to get lost.”

Someone had gotten past the heavy police presence in Morningside Heights to set the hellfire bomb on his car. Patrick wouldn’t put it past the Dominion Sect to sic some of their acolytes on him. If anyone had eyes on the two of them, it would be difficult to keep watch in a crowd.

As they turned a corner, a heavy gust of wind smacked Patrick in the face. He glanced up at the now-cloudy sky, a marked difference from the clear blue that morning. The air had a muggy feel to it, like the lead-up to a storm.

Patrick put the change in weather and the warning it could be out of his mind in favor of leading Jono two blocks north to the Spring Street subway station. Patrick picked up a single-ride subway ticket to get through the fare gates while Jono used his MetroCard. They blended in with the crowd waiting on the platform and took the next 6 train running north, riding it all the way up to Grand Central Station.

Even before they arrived at that transit hub, Patrick could sense the magic emanating from it. The famous station contained the anchoring circle of protective wards that ran through the entire subway system. Power bled out in all directions, a faint buzz to his senses that was easy to ignore.

The train came to a stop and the doors opened automatically. As they exited the train car, Jono slipped his hand into Patrick’s and tugged him through the crush of people ready to get their Saturday night started. Jono’s hand was warm in his, the strength in the hold impossible to miss. Patrick let him take point, Jono’s presence as a predator something human instinct couldn’t ignore. People got out of his way without even realizing it.

“Where to now?” Jono asked.

“Anywhere,” Patrick told him.

Jono took him on a circuitous route through the station to catch the 7 train going west. They took it crosstown, getting off at Times Square. Rather than get on another train, they went topside into the summer crowds of tourists filling the Great White Way. The famous intersection burned bright with the neon lights of dozens of electronic billboards, familiar store-brand logos, and the famous advertising screens attached to the One Times Square building.

Patrick still carried his handgun and his dagger, the look-away ward set in the leather of his holster and sheath keeping curious eyes at bay. Patrick pulled his hand free of Jono’s grip and reached for his phone. No messages and no calls.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said.

They walked through the crowd and didn’t stop until Patrick found the first bus line going south. They squeezed their way onto a bus carrying more tourists than locals. Patrick ended up pressed against Jono’s front, one hand gripping a hand strap while he kept the other to himself. That lasted as long as it took for a taxi to cut the bus off and the driver to slam on the brakes. Patrick swayed hard with everyone else, staying upright with the help of Jono’s hand that suddenly found its way to his hip.

This close, and all Patrick could think about was their fleeting time together the other night and the way Jono wouldn’t stop looking at him, even now.

“We staying aboveground?” Jono asked, his thumb stroking distractingly against Patrick’s waist beneath his shirt.

“Down to the Financial District. We’ll catch a taxi there.”

“All right.”

Jono never let go of Patrick, and he couldn’t find it within himself to ask Jono to give him space. Touch for the sake of it wasn’t something Patrick got to indulge in often, while werecreatures thrived on it.

Maybe we both miss this, he thought.

It wasn’t a question he would ever ask.

Patrick hailed a taxi rather than an Uber when they finally made it off the bus. The yellow vehicle blended in with traffic more. They’d spent an hour and a half backtracking through the streets of Manhattan to lose a tail that may or may not have even existed. Patrick preferred being cautious over being dead.

When the taxi arrived at Tempest, a familiar Maserati was parked out front. Patrick scowled as he paid for the ride.

“I’m going to kill him,” Patrick said.

“Defeats the purpose of keeping him safe, yeah?” Jono replied.

“He’d be safe in a grave.”

Jono threw back his head and laughed as he stepped onto the pavement. Patrick enjoyed the view, eyes lingering on Jono’s ass. He thought about fully raising his shields again, but the flashback to the hellfire bomb stayed his hand. Patrick kept his shields at the level they currently were—strong but porous enough to let scent through. Walking into a bar full of werecreatures capable of smelling truth from a lie wouldn’t be comfortable, but he wouldn’t be staying long.

The bouncer waved them inside, keeping his attention on the street and guarding the door. The tingle of the searching spell someone had recast slid over Patrick’s shields before falling away. Recognition filtered through his magic as they stepped inside, the overwhelming sense of werecreature just as strong as the first time he’d visited.

The bar was half-full, conversation held to quiet bubbles that didn’t drift far from huddled groups. The sound system was turned on low, a marked difference from the noise of Thursday night. The metaphysical feel of the place was calmer, lighter, the cleansing done yesterday having cleared the bar of any hint that hell had trespassed on the premises.

Patrick followed Jono up to the bar where Emma, Leon, and Sage had made room for them. Tyler had taken a spot at the far end and was ignoring everyone in favor of his phone.

Patrick claimed the seat next to Sage, pretending he wasn’t aware of the line of heat from Jono’s body on his other side. He glared across the bar counter at where Marek was mixing a drink in a shaker. “I told you to stay fucking put. Did you not see the news this morning?”

“Yes,” Marek said.

“Do you like tempting fate?”

Marek rolled his eyes as he poured out the mixture into a coupe glass and garnished it with a thinly shaved orange peel. He passed it over to Sage before turning around to open a small cupboard with a glass door. He pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet 25 Year Old single malt scotch and flipped over a glass to pour out an ounce of the good stuff. He placed the drink in front of Patrick like a peace offering.

Patrick really didn’t want to take it, but fuck, that was some good whiskey right there.

“On the house,” Marek said.

“This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for disobeying orders,” Patrick retorted.

He picked up the glass anyway and took a sip, relishing the taste of it. Patrick had no plans to get drunk tonight, but he wasn’t saying no to free alcohol. Besides, he did most of his drinking behind a locked door in a room that housed no one else but him for a reason.

Marek braced himself against the work counter behind the bar. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not one of your little soldiers you can boss around.”

Patrick turned his head and gave Jono a look. Jono shook his head and rested his elbows on the bar. “Nah, Pat. I didn’t say nothing.”

Marek rapped his knuckles against the wood, dragging Patrick’s attention back to him. “An unnamed source told the news the hellfire bomb was military grade and so was the defense. Your name might not be in the news yet, but the rank you have to be to pull off that kind of save is. The media is pressing the PCB for answers on who they hired.”

Patrick made a face and took another sip of the whiskey, not admitting to anything.

Emma peered around Sage at him, tucking some of her hair behind one delicate ear. “Who did it target? You or Jono?”

Patrick paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. He finished the motion because he wasn’t going to waste good whiskey, but Patrick suddenly wished he could tighten his shields. A warm hand settled on his thigh. He turned to stare at Jono, meeting those wolf-bright eyes and seeing nothing but concern in the older man’s gaze.

“You’re supposed to stay with me,” Patrick said slowly. “They never said why.”

He didn’t have to elaborate on who they were. He thought back to Thursday night, to when the soultaker attacked. The demon had gone after Marek—but Marek hadn’t been the only one in that vicinity.

Jono had been standing right beside him.

“You said Marek was the target,” Jono told him.

Patrick downed the rest of the whiskey, needing the burn to steady himself. He wished he could enjoy it, but it felt like acid in his mouth. “Marek might not be the only one.”

“I don’t have a clean soul. Why would they want me?”

Patrick couldn’t answer that, and even if he knew something, he wouldn’t talk about it in Tempest. Too many ears and eyes that didn’t need to know the inner workings of his mind, or the details of this case.

“You want another?” Marek asked.

Patrick shook his head. “No.”

Marek served him a glass of water instead. Patrick pulled it closer and ignored the conversation around him in favor of his phone. Still no missed calls or messages. He accessed his email but didn’t see any new ones that mattered.

All the while Jono’s hand stayed on his thigh, and Patrick was acutely aware of the heat in the touch.

Tempest didn’t get much busier than when they arrived, which was odd for a Saturday night. Patrick didn’t know if it was because of gossip about the attack or if the doorman had orders to keep anyone human out. Still, he didn’t leave his spot except to use the restroom, even if Jono left him to take over for Marek behind the bar. Patrick told himself he didn’t miss Jono’s touch.

It was close to 2130 when the first of Setsuna’s promised backup finally arrived.

Patrick was nursing his second glass of water when a commotion at the front door had him jerking his head around. One hand automatically strayed to his sidearm without even thinking about it, magic flickering against the palm of his other hand. When he saw who walked inside, Patrick stopped reaching for both.

Fuck my life, he thought resignedly.

The newcomer was undead, the sucking emptiness where a soul once resided in human flesh a familiar recognition that pulled at Patrick’s magic, even through his shields. The vampire was as tall as Jono, who was at least three inches over six feet. Blond hair was cut short, the icy blue of his eyes standing out against too-pale skin. The vampire’s gaze swept the room, taking in everything with a quick glance, before finally settling on Patrick. Thin lips lifted in a slight snarl, revealing jagged teeth that always reminded Patrick of a piranha.

Emma was on her feet in an instant, Leon right by her side. They planted themselves between the vampire and those in the bar, refusing to give ground. Everyone else had gone still and quiet, the music the only noise in the place for several tense seconds.

“This is pack territory. We have treaties with Tremaine’s Night Court and the other master vampires in this city that require your kind to stay the hell away,” Leon growled.

The vampire didn’t move, gaze still riveted on Patrick like a predator ready to pounce. “Not my Night Court.”

His answer didn’t seem to sit well with Emma and Leon. Patrick slid off the stool and approached where they stood. He managed to get a step past the two when a strong hand gripped his arm, holding him back. Patrick rocked back on his heels as he looked over his shoulder at Jono.

“Remember how I said I needed to make myself available?” Patrick asked.

Jono’s eyes weren’t on him, but on the vampire. “Didn’t think you meant like this.”

Patrick didn’t try to get free of Jono’s grip, merely faced forward again, meeting the vampire’s piercing gaze. “Einar. Were you the only one he sent?”

The vampire didn’t say a word.

Someone else answered for him.

“No,” a sultry voice said. “Our master sent me.”

High heels clacked sharply against the floor as someone else walked inside the bar. She brought with her a sexual energy that made Patrick’s dick twitch in his jeans, despite not being attracted to women at all.

Carmen always did have that effect on people and monsters alike.

She sauntered forward on five-inch stiletto heels, wearing a burgundy corset minidress that clung to every curve of her body. The neckline plunged indecently low between her full breasts while the hemline was scandalously short. Gold and pearl necklaces hung from her throat at varying lengths, swaying with every step she took. The outfit as a whole was a modern-day look that teased her Venetian courtesan roots.

The color of Carmen’s dress brought out the bronzed undertone to her tanned olive skin, giving her a sun-kissed look Einar would forever lack. Her long black hair fell to her waist in a riot of curls. She looked human, but between one step and the next, the glamour she wore like a second skin sloughed off, revealing her true form.

Curled horns twisted away from her hairline over her skull, her hair parting around them. Gold and diamond hoops were pierced through each ear from lobe to pointed tip. The pupils of her dark brown eyes weren’t black, but a deep, dark red. The sexual energy emanating from her grew stronger, thickening the air with people’s arousal. Her heart-shaped face hadn’t changed at all since the last time Patrick had seen her, and neither had the icy crimson smile she bestowed upon him, her eyes locked with his.

Patrick did himself a favor and adjusted his shields, blocking out the sexual aggression Carmen thrived in.

“Ciao, bastardo,” Carmen said, the succubus’ voice tinged with her native Italian accent even these hundreds of years later.

Jono’s grip became almost bruising for a second or two before loosening enough that Patrick could pull free. He took that step forward and put himself between the two groups, keeping his eyes on Carmen.

“I see that necrophilia thing is still working out for you,” Patrick said.

“I see your manners haven’t improved.”

“I save them for the living.”

Carmen’s smile grew wider, though Einar looked like he was contemplating murder.

Then again, the vampire always looked like he was contemplating murder.

Patrick barely paid him any attention. Einar was here for Carmen’s protection, but they all knew Patrick wouldn’t lay a finger on her. As the favored lover to one of the world’s most notorious vampires, any attack against Carmen was an attack against Lucien. Patrick didn’t know how old Carmen truly was, but her first recorded appearance hit the history books about five hundred years ago. Still nearly half a millennia younger than Lucien, but that didn’t make her any less dangerous.

Thinking about Ashanti’s favorite child, Patrick wondered what the hell Setsuna had offered to get Lucien to agree to watch his six. Not that Patrick trusted the vampire at fucking all.

No wonder Setsuna wouldn’t tell me who she was sending, he thought to himself.

Lucien was a public relations nightmare just waiting to happen, not to mention illegal on so many fronts it wasn’t even funny. Patrick’s fingers twitched with the need for a cigarette to calm his already frayed nerves.

“Did he come to the bar?” Patrick asked.

Carmen clucked her tongue at Patrick in a sharp tsk. “He does not come to you. You go to him.”

Patrick thought about keeping his ass right where it was, but he didn’t have that option. Setsuna had given up who knew how many favors, cashed in an unknown number of debts, to bring Lucien and his Night Court to the United States on such short notice. Patrick couldn’t trust any help coming from the SOA right now. His only option had been reduced to a vampire who absolutely hated his guts and would rather Patrick be dead.

Except Lucien had made a promise to Ashanti, one that began and ended with Patrick. Lucien didn’t give a shit about honor, but he believed in obeying his mother. That was the only reason he hadn’t stabbed Patrick in the back since the end of the Thirty-Day War.

“You’ll need to give us a ride. My car died a violent death this morning,” Patrick said.

Carmen arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Us? He is not in the mood to play with wolves.”

“I can’t leave Jono behind. Seer’s orders.”

Carmen’s intense gaze shifted from Patrick to Jono, before sliding away to settle on Marek, who had come out from behind the bar to stand in solidarity with Emma and Leon. Neither of them appreciated the attention directed Marek’s way, and they put themselves in front of him in a protective manner. The anger on their faces warred with the lust Carmen was drawing out of everyone, no matter their sexual orientation.

Carmen tilted her head to the side, her curly hair shifting around the horns on her head. “Far be it for me to ignore the will of a mouthpiece. Bring the wolf.”

“You sure about this?” Jono asked in a low voice.

Patrick shrugged. “I need the backup.”

“Not sure you need what’s on offer from her.”

“We’re going with you,” Marek announced.

“Oh, hell no,” Patrick said, turning to face Marek. “You are marching your ass back home and getting behind that barrier ward.”

Marek gave Patrick an unimpressed look. “Remember what I said about not being one of your little soldiers?”

Patrick would have argued the point, except Carmen’s amused laughter interrupted him. Her smile was now tempered into something mocking and cold, sharp teeth a gleaming line between the vibrant red of her lipstick.

“Let them come,” she said. “You are backed too far into a corner to ignore a weapon when you find one, Patrick.”

She had a point. That didn’t mean Patrick had to like it.

Carmen spun on her heel, the glamour wrapping itself around her body, hiding her true self once again. The horns disappeared, the otherworldly shape of her melting back into her human form. The red center of her eyes darkened to black. Despite his shields, Patrick doubted she’d reined in the sexual energy she exuded. It was the way of her kind, after all, no matter the form they took.

“Uh,” Tyler said from behind them. “Should I come with you?”

Patrick figured it would be a really, really bad idea if the police found out who had come to New York City. He shook his head and gestured vaguely at the door. “Go back to Marek’s home and wait for him there.”

Tyler seemed relieved at the order, even if he was a little red in the face and subtly shifting on his barstool. Getting an erection in public with no way to get relief was never fun. In fact, the only person who didn’t seem affected by Carmen’s presence was Jono.

Patrick wondered about that as he followed Carmen out of the bar, letting Einar take point. A black SUV was double-parked on the street with its hazard lights on, every window tinted black. Einar opened the side passenger door for Carmen to get in before claiming the front seat. Patrick got a glimpse of another vampire behind the wheel before Carmen gestured impatiently at him.

“Well?” she demanded. “Are you coming or not?”

Patrick and Jono climbed into the far rear seats of the SUV without argument. The second the door shut, the driver took the vehicle out of park and slammed his foot on the gas. Patrick looked over his shoulder in time to see Marek, Emma, Sage, and Leon scrambling into his Maserati, intent on not getting left behind.

“You never could stay out of trouble, Patrick,” Carmen said as she tapped away at her phone, shooting off a text message.

Patrick wanted to tell her this whole mess wasn’t his fault, but he’d be lying if he did.