“So.” Patrick cleared his throat. “Why are you in Chicago?”
“Because this is where Macaria is,” Persephone said.
“Right.” Patrick glanced at Demeter. “Are you here for emotional support?”
Demeter reached for a blueberry donut, tearing it into bite-sized pieces. “I am here because of the spell which was cast that pulled power from the nexus.”
“It wasn’t a sacrificial one.”
“And yet, I hear Odin is missing.”
“He’s not dead yet.”
Demeter popped a piece of donut into her mouth and chewed slowly. She didn’t blink, and Patrick tried not to squirm beneath her gaze. Her aura was a flickering, golden glow around her that thankfully didn’t burn his eyes. He wondered if she had dimmed it out of politeness for his presence or if the people who remembered her were thin on the ground these days.
“The spell wasn’t for Odin,” Persephone said.
What little warmth Patrick had felt walking into the shop evaporated at her words. A chill settled in his bones that no amount of heat charms embedded in his leather jacket could cure.
“Then who was it for?” he asked, thinking of the pentagram on that hardwood floor in Westberg’s home. All the candles and figurines and blood spilled for a reason no one knew—except Demeter seemed to.
“They were for Macaria. They were to Freyr,” Demeter said.
Patrick rubbed at his eyes hard enough he had to blink away black spots when he opened them again. “Freyr. He’s—what? The Norse god of fair weather, which we could use, and—”
Patrick snapped his mouth shut so fast his teeth caught the edge of his tongue, cutting into it. The taste of blood filtered over his tongue, but he hardly noticed it. He stared at Demeter, stomach churning badly.
Persephone folded her hands together, nails digging into the sun-kissed skin over her bones. “Fertility.”
Patrick shoved himself to his feet, hurried to the garbage bin near the door, and puked up everything left in his stomach from lunch and enough bile it came out of his nose. He heaved for a few seconds more, clammy and cold. It felt as if his world had been ripped apart all over again, the same way his soul had twisted from the backlash running through his twin’s.
A warm hand settled on the back of his neck. He jerked away from the touch, breathing harshly through his mouth, wishing he had a bottle of whiskey at hand to wash away the sour taste.
“No,” Patrick rasped out, staring at Persephone, only dimly aware that no one was paying any attention to them.
“Freyr may not be of our pantheon, but like knows like. Fertility spells resonate because of the life they gift to those asking.”
“No.”
Persephone stepped closer, bringing with her the scent of spring that wasn’t strong enough to overpower the taste and smell of bile in his mouth, in his throat. “You didn’t take the shot in Cairo and this is where it led us.”
Patrick flinched with his entire body, struggling to breathe. His phone started ringing, but he couldn’t answer it when the effort to get air into his lungs hurt so much.
“You owe me my daughter’s life, Patrick. That was my price when I saved you.”
He swallowed so hard his throat clicked, the scars on his chest pulling tight. “I know.”
Persephone touched his cheeks, wiping away the tears he hadn’t known he’d shed. “You will pay your soul debt, no matter the cost.”
She walked out of the shop and into the snow, disappearing into the white flurries and the veil tangled between each snowflake. Patrick scrubbed a shaking hand over his face, trying to get his bearings back. When he looked over at the table they’d been sitting at, he saw it was empty.
“Fuck,” Patrick whispered quietly as he headed outside.
His phone stopped ringing before starting up again. Patrick fumbled it out of his pocket on the walk back to the SUV, Jono’s name bright on the screen, a lifeline that could never save him. Patrick’s thumb hovered over the green Accept icon before swiping over the red, sending the call to voicemail.
He needed a goddamn drink, not a conversation.
17
“Something died in my mouth,” Patrick said, not opening his eyes.
“You smell like an alleyway behind a pub,” Jono said from beside him on the bed.
“Put me out of my misery.”
“Those bloody ravens came by while you were passed out. They said Frigg wants to have a chat over breakfast.”
The thought of food had Patrick swallowing very, very carefully. “I said put me out of my misery, not make it worse.”
Gentle fingers rubbed at his temples and the throbbing there that wouldn’t go away. “Want to talk about it?”
The thought of talking about the atrocity done to his twin had Patrick struggling to a sitting position, eyes still closed, breathing heavily. Jono helped him to the bathroom, and Patrick fell to his knees in front of the toilet just in time to get sick. Nothing came out but bile and whiskey, but he didn’t feel better afterward.
“Guess that answers my question.”
Patrick listed to the side and ended up leaning against the tub. He kept his eyes shut, but that didn’t stop the world from moving. The hangover he was suffering through was caused by trying to drink his body weight in whiskey last night. Jono had eventually caught up with him at some dive bar downtown. He’d paid Patrick’s tab, driven him back to the hotel, and poured him into bed, where he’d passed out rather than slept.
“Shower, and I’ll ring the front desk for some paracetamol,” Jono said in a quiet voice.
“They call it Tylenol here,” Patrick muttered.
“Hush, you.”
The thought of moving wasn’t appealing, but Patrick knew he needed to. It wouldn’t be the first time he worked while feeling like he wanted to keel over and die, though this time it was self-inflicted as opposed to an injury.
Moving hurt, but he did it anyway, slowly peeling out of the sleep pants he didn’t remember putting on last night. Hauling himself to his feet, head pounding, Patrick turned on the
