Even as they fell, another strike spell shot toward them—only to be incinerated by dragon fire.
Wade’s sinuous shape dove through the wind and snow, his forefeet reaching for them. They were engulfed in sharp talons that cradled them close to a warm red body, carrying them to what safety Navy Pier could provide.
It was outside the spellwork, which could work in their favor. Removing Odin from the physical location of the spellwork wouldn’t break it, but his absence would weaken it.
Wade spat flame the entire flight to the ground, landing with hind legs first before he gently placed Töfrandi and the rest of them onto the ground. The pegasus collapsed to his knees, heaving for air. Patrick got to his feet, struggling to drag Odin away from the wounded pegasus while Eir did what she could for her steed. There was no saving Töfrandi though, not with a critical wound like that. Patrick wasn’t surprised when Eir drove her spear through the pegasus’ ribs, piercing his heart to put him out of his misery.
Odin was deadweight in his arms as Patrick dragged the Allfather beneath the safety of Wade’s body. Patrick stabbed Wade in the foot with the pommel of his dagger to get his attention. “Hey! I need you to keep Odin safe.”
Wade snaked his head down to blink at Patrick, golden eye bright in his wedge-shaped head. He snorted smoke through his nostrils before hissing a warning, fire flickering behind his teeth. Patrick snapped his head around, staring through the snow at whatever had caught Wade’s attention.
The neon lights of Navy Pier hadn’t been turned off despite the snowstorm. The Children’s Museum, Ferris wheel, and other rides provided enough light for Patrick to see the group of Dominion Sect magic users coming their way.
They’d crashed onto the side of the pier, with the buildings to their right and Lake Michigan to their left. The only way out was through the enemy. Ethan was at the forefront of the Dominion Sect mercenaries and the hellhounds flanking them, a mageglobe held in one hand and Loki carrying Gungnir by his side.
Patrick wondered where Thor had gone, if the god of thunder was alive considering the wound Eir had only half healed for him.
“That weapon does not belong to you, Loki,” Eir snarled with enough malevolence in her voice that Patrick flinched.
Or maybe he flinched because of Ethan.
Patrick figured it didn’t matter since no one saw, and if they did, he’d blame it on the cold.
“If Odin wants it back, he can take it from me,” Loki taunted, wind whipping his laughter away.
Eir left Töfrandi’s body behind to come stand by Patrick, her spear pointed at the new threat. Some of her dark brown hair had been tugged free of her braids by the wind, and the furious grief on her face was matched only by the rage in her veil-colored eyes.
“You stole something of mine,” Ethan said loudly to be heard over the wind.
Patrick tightened his grip on his dagger with fingers numbed from the cold or fear, he couldn’t tell which. He conjured up a half-dozen mageglobes, filling them with raw magic.
Patrick squinted through the storm at where Ethan stood, the wind tearing at his father’s blond hair and the cold-weather gear he wore. Patrick didn’t see Hannah anywhere, nor Zachary. The tugging in his soul had stopped—mostly because he’d done his damnedest to wall it off.
“Odin isn’t yours, asshole,” Patrick forced out.
Wind-driven waves crashed over the side of Navy Pier, the spray caught between the driving snow. Patrick spared a glance toward the water as the lightning storm drew closer. He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his dagger as he caught sight of pale, pale hands clawing at the edge of the pier.
The dead of Náströnd who called Niflheim home were pushing through the veil.
“We’re running out of time,” Patrick said, shaping the words with numb lips.
He didn’t know if anyone heard him.
Thunder echoed through the sky, a never-ending sound. In the valley of silence between each lightning strike before the thunder boomed, an eerie, haunting howl echoed in the air. Loki gripped Gungnir and looked over his shoulder into the dark. Patrick followed his gaze, trying desperately to make out whatever was coming their way. Whatever was out there, it made the Dominion Sect mercenaries scatter, half their numbers holding their ground against Patrick, Eir, and Wade, while the rest turned to face the new threat.
Which meant it wasn’t anyone on Ethan’s side of the fight.
The soulbond twisted—sharp and demanding—and Patrick swallowed tightly against the relief that warmed him from the inside out.
Jono.
Not Fenrir, but Jono—and the Chicago god pack, judging by the number of werewolves that raced through the snow toward Navy Pier. Patrick didn’t know how the hell they’d made it downtown in this storm, but he wasn’t going to turn them away even if Naomi and Alejandro didn’t know what danger they were leading their pack into.
Magic cut through the air, and Patrick strengthened his shields. Wade roared and spat fire, breaking through some of the attack, but portions still got through. Ethan’s magic grated against Patrick’s shields, cutting through in a way only those tied by blood could manage.
Which was fine—because his attack knocked Ethan off his feet even as Patrick took a hit that drove all the air from his lungs and sent him flying past Eir. He crashed to the pier, rolling dangerously close to the edge with all those grasping hands of the dead. Wade whipped his tail around to stop Patrick’s momentum, curling protectively around him. Instead of getting within reach of the dead, Patrick folded himself around the forked tail, trying to breathe.
The snarling howls of a fight rushed in and out of his ears as Patrick got
