“I know.”
“Is it working?”
Jono laughed on his way out of the bedroom. “I’ll get the coffee started.”
“I’m hiding your tea,” Patrick yelled after him.
If Jono responded, Patrick didn’t hear him. Swearing under his breath, Patrick rubbed at his dry eyes, trying to find the willpower to get up. He’d much rather stay in bed with Jono, but his job couldn’t wait. Working for the SOA was a headache most days, but at least he was no longer flying around the country and living out of hotel rooms and suitcases like he had been before being transferred to New York last year.
Patrick might no longer be attached to the SOA’s Rapid Response Division, but some cases that came down the pipeline could only be handled by a mage with his expertise. The ongoing case about the Morrígan’s staff was one example, even if very few people in the SOA knew about the problem.
It’s probably why Setsuna is in town.
Some things weren’t safe to talk about on a phone line—secret burner phone or otherwise. Patrick didn’t believe Setsuna had uncovered all the Dominion Sect traitors in the SOA. The director coming to New York City just proved it.
Patrick finally shoved the blankets off himself and got up. He fumbled his way into a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved Henley, and battered combat boots. His gods-given dagger was sheathed and resting on the nightstand. Patrick strapped it to his right thigh and anchored a strap to his belt with practiced fingers. His semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol was in the lockbox on top of the dresser, and he opened it up.
While he doubted he’d need a handgun for his upcoming meeting, Patrick didn’t go anywhere unarmed while on duty. Unlike most magic users who never imagined they wouldn’t have access to their magic, Patrick knew it was always a possibility, one he perpetually lived with. Mages were the only magic users who could access external magic outside the human soul. The soul wound he’d taken during the Thirty-Day War meant he could—technically—no longer tap a ley line or nexus.
The soulbond with Jono had changed that.
Patrick clipped his badge to his belt before grabbing his leather jacket from the closet. February had been rainy, wet, and cold so far, with a few snow days. The bitter winter cold from December when the Wild Hunt and the Sluagh had ridden the stormy skies above the city had thankfully settled into normal weather a few days after Christmas.
December had been a roller coaster that Patrick would’ve paid money at any point to get off of. Learning that his old captain was in truth an immortal had been one of those moments where everything about living just hurt. The gods had fucked with Patrick his entire life, and to learn that someone he considered a brother and brother-in-arms had betrayed him like that was still a raw wound deep down inside.
He’d forgiven Gerard though, because Patrick had learned—with Jono’s help—that closing himself off from everyone wasn’t helpful. Sometimes the gods themselves didn’t get a choice. Gerard had proven that when, as the warrior Cú Chulainn, he had promised the goddess Cailleach Bheur he would return to Ireland once the Morrígan’s staff was found.
It was finding the damned thing that was the problem.
Once locked away in the United States’ Repository, it had been stolen by Medb after the Thirty-Day War ended three and a half years ago. They’d all thought Ethan Greene and the Dominion Sect had been behind the theft, but it turned out the gods weren’t above stealing from each other. In the fight at the Gap of Dunloe on winter solstice, the Dagda had forced Medb to keep her promise and tell them where the Morrígan’s staff was.
There was only one problem with that win. The fae of any court were experts at twisting words, and Medb had only said it was in the mortal world. After weeks of chasing down leads gleaned from chatter, the SOA—along with the Preternatural Intelligence Agency and the US Department of the Preternatural—had agreed it was most likely going to be sold on the black market.
They just didn’t know where.
Something must have come up though. Setsuna had called Patrick yesterday while he was in the field to tell him she would be in town for a few days, and that they were meeting that morning. Patrick hadn’t seen her in person since last June when he was in the hospital recovering from breaking up Ethan’s sacrificial spell and getting his soul bound to Jono’s. Patrick wasn’t looking forward to today’s meeting at all.
Whiskey in his coffee would’ve made everything better, but Jono was a stingy bastard.
When Patrick stepped into the living room of their top-floor Chelsea apartment, he was greeted with a kiss and a mug of coffee that had cream and nothing else in it.
“I’ll pour my own whiskey,” Patrick muttered against Jono’s lips.
Jono laughed, nipping gently at his bottom lip. “You’ll do no such thing. Are you hungry? I’ll make you a fry-up.”
“You can go back to bed, you know that? Only one of us is working today.”
Jono pulled away and retreated to the kitchen. “I don’t mind getting up with you.”
Patrick watched him go, a warmth settling in his chest that had nothing to do with the central heat that Jono had turned up. The gods might have maneuvered Jono into his life, but Jono was everything Patrick never knew he needed.
He joined Jono in the kitchen, relishing their time together. Breakfast was a quick affair, and they ate it standing at the counter rather than at the dining room table. Patrick leaned against Jono as he ate, sipping at his second cup of coffee every now and then.
“Anyone come to the bar for help last night?” Patrick asked.
Jono shook his head. “No, but we were busy enough.”
Busy was an understatement. Ever since Jono had accepted
