Most of the packs who had switched allegiance were smaller ones, located outside Manhattan proper. Nearly half the independent-ranked werecreatures who called the five boroughs home had asked Jono for protection before the end of January. Patrick anticipated the rest would shift allegiance before the end of February. Nearly every single pack who had asked to be governed by their god pack had been accepted—except for one.
The Falcon pack, out of Manhattan, was a moderately large pack of werewolves whose alpha had come to Tempest one night three weeks back. Eduardo had been earnest and willing to submit to Jono’s rule, ready to show throat, but Jono had taken one look at the man and told him no.
Sage Beacot, their dire, had promptly kicked Eduardo out, along with the few pack members he’d brought. When pressed, Jono had simply said the Falcon pack couldn’t be trusted. Later, Jono had confessed to Patrick that Fenrir had told him not to take the pack on. Patrick usually didn’t trust gods, but the immortal Norse wolf that had teeth and claws sunk deep in Jono’s soul wasn’t one they could argue with.
Rarely did animal-god patrons bestow werecreatures with their guidance and blessings. Given the choice, Patrick would wish Jono free of the immortal, but he could grudgingly admit that Fenrir gave their pack a legitimacy no one else had—they just weren’t announcing the god’s favor yet to anyone outside their pack. Whenever they did, Patrick knew shit would go down.
Right now, bringing in packs and independent werecreatures they could trust made it easier for them to expand their pack boundaries. Their small, four-person god pack literally only had one werecreature who carried the god strain of the werevirus. Jono was enough though, and the rest of them backed him. So far, the people who’d opted to accept their protection were fine with taking orders from a werewolf, a mage, a weretiger, and a fledgling fire dragon, even if most people thought Wade Espinoza was just an annoying teenager.
“See you tonight?” Jono asked as he walked Patrick to the front door.
Patrick slapped his hand against the doorframe, strengthening the threshold wrapped around their apartment with a quick burst of focused magic. “Monday nights at the bar are always my favorite.”
“We won’t stay late. I know you need to sleep.”
“Just because I need to sleep doesn’t mean I can let pack duty slide.” Patrick rose on his tiptoes to kiss Jono goodbye. “I’ll be there.”
Jono pressed a hand to the small of Patrick’s back, keeping Patrick close as he deepened the kiss just enough to be a tease. Patrick groaned, hating that he had to go to work.
“Be safe,” Jono said when he finally pulled back. “I love you.”
“I will.”
Patrick didn’t say the other words back—hadn’t said them since Jono first confessed his love on Christmas Eve. They were buried down deep, spread through actions and touches, but never voiced. Some part of Patrick was too scared to say them and then lose what mattered most in his life these days.
The gods had given Jono to him as a weapon after all, and what the gods gave, they could take away.
“See you tonight,” Patrick said as he left the apartment.
The door didn’t close until he rounded the landing below. Patrick went to work with a smile on his face, Jono’s care warming him better than the fae-given heat charms embedded in his leather jacket.
The coffee in the SOA’s New York field office tasted like burned sludge, but Patrick drank it anyway. Fueling his bad mood with shitty coffee was just par for the course some days. He checked the time on his cell phone again, but the numbers still showed that his meeting with Setsuna—which was supposed to start at 0900—was delayed. It was nearing 1000 and she was still ensconced with SAIC Henry Ng on a different floor.
Patrick was going to take his lunch break early at this rate, whether she liked it or not.
He frowned at the low battery on his phone, realizing he’d been too tired to remember to charge his phone last night. Jono and their bed had overridden all other thoughts at the time. Patrick leaned over to yank open the bottom desk drawer, certain he had a spare charger in the mess hidden there. Who knew how much crap he’d managed to hoard over the last nine months?
I’m picking up Wade’s hoarding habits.
That was a terrifying thought.
Someone knocked on his office door and opened it without waiting for him to answer. “Collins. You have a visitor.”
Patrick peered over his desk at the receptionist from the floor’s front desk, still digging for a cell phone charger. “Is the director finally finished?”
The woman shook her head and stepped aside for someone else. “Not the director.”
The person who entered Patrick’s office was definitely not Setsuna.
One of the United States of America’s only true god-touched seers looked like he’d gone on a full weekend bender and hadn’t made it home. Marek’s hazel eyes were bloodshot, brown hair messy in a way that wasn’t stylish and had more to do with fingers running through it than anything else.
Patrick stared at Marek, noting the way his hands shook ever so slightly, the tightness around his mouth, and how hard he was clenching his jaw, as if he were trying not to throw up. Patrick abandoned his search for a charger in favor of helping Marek before the seer passed out.
“Sit down before you fall down,” Patrick ordered as he got to his feet. “Where’s your better half?”
Marek offered him a wan smile before sinking
