A Vigil in the Mourning Read online

  A Vigil In The Mourning

  Soulbound IV

  Hailey Turner

  © 2020 Hailey Turner

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by AngstyG LLC.

  Professional Beta Reading by Leslie Copeland: [email protected]

  Edited by One Love Editing

  Proofing by Lori Parks: [email protected]

  Proofing by Jenni Lea at LesCourt Author Services

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  GLOSSARY

  Author’s Notes

  Connect with Hailey

  Other Works By Hailey Turner

  To Aimee Nicole Walker

  For the encouragement, the cat pictures, and the friendship.

  1

  Mondays were the worst.

  The alarm went off at exactly 0600, dragging Special Agent Patrick Collins out of sleep. He didn’t even bother opening his gritty eyes, just blindly reached for his cell phone on the nightstand to flip it over and shut off the alarm. The silence afterward was blissful, even though he knew it would only last ten minutes. But that was ten extra minutes, and every single one counted when you’d gone to bed at 0300.

  The arm slung over his waist curled tighter, pulling him back against the warm body he shared the bed with. Jonothon de Vere nuzzled at Patrick’s bare shoulder, making him drag up the duvet to keep out the cooler air of the bedroom. Jono was a god pack alpha werewolf and had a higher core body temperature, which meant their bed was too warm half the time, even in winter. February was still winter, and the body heat seeping into his was welcome right now.

  “Don’t wanna get up,” Patrick muttered. “You can’t make me.”

  Jono’s soft chuckle echoed in the quiet of their bedroom. “You have a meeting.”

  Patrick turned his face into the pillow, words coming out muffled. “I don’t want to have a meeting.”

  Jono stroked his hand up Patrick’s chest, his touch warm until it wasn’t. The scars from Patrick’s childhood that were carved into his chest came with some degree of nerve damage. The near-mortal wound might have been healed by a goddess, but Persephone’s care had only gone so far. Jono’s touch came and went as he settled his hand over Patrick’s heart.

  Time was he would’ve hooked his fingers over the chain of Patrick’s dog tags, but Patrick had finally set those aside on New Year’s Eve. He’d been part of the Mage Corps until he was twenty-six, fighting on behalf of the government against the darker aspects of all the hells. At twenty-nine—going on thirty next month—Patrick had worn his dog tags for years after he’d stopped wearing a uniform.

  After everything that had happened with the Hellraisers and Captain Gerard Breckenridge in December, Patrick was learning to let go of things that used to define himself even as he held on to other bits. One of those was Jono, the man he was soulbound to, the man who loved him—and the man who wouldn’t let Patrick sulk even when the situation warranted it.

  “You need to get up, love,” Jono murmured.

  Patrick made a disagreeable sound. “Five more minutes.”

  The alarm going off again indicated he wasn’t getting those five minutes.

  Patrick groaned and reached for his cell phone, actually lifting it up this time to turn off the alarm with a swipe of his thumb. He set it down and turned over in Jono’s arms to press his face against that warm, hard chest. Patrick breathed in deep, smelling faint hints of stale alcohol and the last traces of Jono’s cologne. He’d already been in bed when Patrick had stumbled home that morning, his managerial shift at Tempest ending before closing.

  Patrick, on the other hand, had spent the last four days hunting down a possessed Catholic priest before locating the man in question in Hoboken, New Jersey. Patrick’s tainted magic might make it easier for him to hunt down demons, but he was shit at sending them back to where they’d come from if they were still tied to a human soul. The possessed priest was currently contained in a warded cell at the Supernatural Operations Agency’s New York field office. Last Patrick heard, the Catholic Church had sent an exorcism team to deal with the man.

  Patrick hadn’t stuck around to face the Church’s hypocrisy regarding magic. As with most conservative religious organizations, the Catholic Church had banned magic centuries ago, but magic was part of the world, whether they liked it or not. No ban had ever been enough to stop demons from crossing the veil and wreaking havoc on humanity. The Catholic Church allowed magic use only for exorcisms, but that was lip service as far as Patrick was concerned. The Spanish Inquisition was testament to it.

  The priest case had left Patrick catching cat naps at the office and at home, and the three hours of sleep he’d managed that morning was definitely not enough to make the upcoming meeting palatable.

  Nothing would be enough to put him in a good mood when it came to dealing with SOA Director Setsuna Abuku.

  “I’ll make you coffee while you shower,” Jono said, stroking his back.

  Patrick hummed thoughtfully. “With whiskey.”

  “No. Now get up.”

  “Wow. I can feel the love in this room.”

  Jono snorted and rolled away, getting up. He turned on the bedside lamp as he did so. “You know I love you, but you’re a right wanker when you don’t have coffee in you.”

  “I could have you in me, and then I bet that would put me in a better mood.”

  Patrick watched as Jono stood and stretched, putting his naked body on display with a teasing smirk on his face. His black hair was bed messy rather than sex messy, and his wolf-bright blue eyes seemed to glow in the dim light.

  He snagged a pair of underwear from the dresser and put them on. “That would make you late for your meeting.”

  Patrick flopped over on his back, glaring up at the ceiling. “I was trying to make you my excuse to get out of it.”

  “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 S
OA. 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 Emma’s pack near the beginning of December and two more packs on Christmas Day as his responsibility, more and more packs had come to Tempest asking for protection. The other god pack of New York City, headed up by Estelle Walker and Youssef Khan, still maintained control of the five boroughs, but Jono’s announcement of his own god pack meant the werecreature community was a ticking time bomb these days.

  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 coul
d 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.”