A Crown of Iron & Silver (Soulbound Book 3) Read online

  A Crown of Iron & Silver

  Soulbound III

  Hailey Turner

  © 2019 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]

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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

  Chapter 24

  GLOSSARY

  Author’s Notes

  Connect with Hailey

  Other Works By Hailey Turner

  To Lily Morton

  For being an amazing friend while halfway across the world.

  My days aren’t complete until we’ve spoken.

  Your support means everything to me, and I’m so glad I know you.

  1

  Special Agent Patrick Collins slammed the Mustang’s trunk closed, swearing when he almost dropped the umbrella and his grocery bags. Not that the umbrella was doing much good against the icy rain coming down sideways, driven by a strong wind. His damp clothes were getting wetter, and no amount of drying charms would fix that while he was outside.

  “Fuck it,” Patrick muttered.

  He pushed his personal shields out of his skin, letting the invisible barrier of magic protect him from the rain while under the umbrella. Patrick sighed in relief at the momentary respite from the weather. At 2130, Patrick was cold, tired, and hungry after a long day working out of the Supernatural Operations Agency’s field office. He’d stopped by Westside Market on the drive home to pick up the groceries he’d forgotten to get last night. He was too tired to cook tonight, but hopefully pizza was waiting for him at home.

  Stepping onto the sidewalk, Patrick headed down the street toward the five-story brownstone apartment building he called home in Chelsea. He’d shared the top-floor apartment with Jonothon de Vere since July. He’d never realized how nice it was to have someone to come home to until he’d moved in with Jono. All those years of returning to a quiet apartment or hotel room paled in comparison of being met at the door with a kiss.

  Some of the buildings he passed had windows decorated with Christmas lights and cutouts of Santa Claus and reindeer on the inside. A few had their curtains parted enough he could see the decorated Christmas trees inside the apartments. Ever since Thanksgiving, more and more homes were starting to decorate for the holidays, but everyone lagged behind the touristy spots in the city.

  Patrick couldn’t wait to get home, eat, and crawl into his nice warm bed. His latest case had involved a group of kappas in the Hudson River hassling commuter ferries. He’d ended every work day for the past three soaked to the bone. Heat charms in his leather jacket aside, if some other creature took over the New York harbor during December, he was punting the job to someone else.

  If he got sick, he was taking the rest of the month off and heading to Maui.

  Patrick hefted the three reusable grocery bags in his right hand, ignoring the way the nylon handles dug into his palm. He needed to walk one block, and then he’d be home and warm.

  When he was half a block away—so close, yet so far—recognition burned through Patrick’s magic with the heated spark of werecreatures. He squinted through the rain at the group of people standing in front of his apartment building and scowled.

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Patrick groaned.

  His semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol was holstered on his right hip and the gods-given dagger was strapped to his right thigh. Even with his hands full, Patrick wasn’t without a weapon.

  Patrick pushed more of his magic out of his soul, letting it form a mageglobe near his left shoulder. The small sphere of raw magic hovered in the air and kept pace with him as he closed the distance between himself and the suddenly attentive group of werecreatures.

  In August, Jono had declared his own god pack, separate from the New York City god pack run by Estelle Walker and Youssef Khan. That declaration had created a lot of tension between their newly formed god pack and most of the other packs in the city. More than once they’d been accosted around the one-block territory they claimed as theirs.

  Patrick wasn’t in the mood for another fight. He wanted to get inside where it was warm.

  “You know, the last time some of you came sniffing around, Jono broke a dozen bones. When your kind tried that shit with me, they ended up in the hospital before getting a trip to Rikers for assaulting a federal agent. You really want that same trip?”

  “We’re not here to fight,” the tall, willowy black woman retorted, not moving from her spot.

  “We came to talk,” the Mexican American man standing opposite of her added.

  Maybe they had, but Patrick hadn’t survived this long by taking people’s word at face value. He didn’t recognize them, and he didn’t trust them.

  “Talking usually happens at Tempest,” Patrick said.

  The bar that Jono managed catered to the werecreature community. It had seen a slowdown in business since they’d formed their pack but was in no danger of closing. No longer seen as neutral territory, Tempest was where those willing to risk Estelle and Youssef’s wrath went for help.

  “We went there first. Jono wasn’t in.”

  Patrick eyed the six werecreatures huddled underneath umbrellas as he approached. Now that he was closer, he could see the wide space between them that only happened when more than one pack was in the same vicinity.

  Patrick put the grocery bags on the wet ground and dug out his cell phone, never taking his eyes off the werecreatures.

  “Yeah?” Jono’s deep voice answered after the first ring, his English accent thick in Patrick’s ear. “You almost home, mate?”

  “Downstairs. Got some unwanted visitors.”

  Jono ended the call on his side of the line without saying a word, and Patrick put his phone away. None of the werecreatures had moved much, except maybe to huddle closer together under their umbrellas. The stormy weather was shitty, and it was cold, and Patrick really didn’t want to deal with pack issues out on the street. He didn’t want to deal with any of it right now, not after the day he’d had, but Patrick didn’t really have a choice

  Less than ten seconds later, Jono yanked open the building’s front door and stepped into the storm. The long-sleeved gray Henley he wore was immediately soaked, as were his jeans. Patrick spared him a glance when he would’ve preferred to let his gaze linger. A wet Jono was always nice to look at, but keeping his eyes on the threat in front of them took priority.

  “We’re not here to fight,” the woman repeated, raising a hand in a defensive manner.

  “Neither are we,” the man in the other pack said.

  “Then why are you here?” Jono demanded, coming down the stoop, his wolf-bright blue eyes reflecting light from the nearby streetlamp.

  The werecreatures glance
d at each other uneasily. Before any of them could speak, a car braked to a stop in front of their building. Patrick mentally guided his mageglobe down to his hand, curling his fingers around it to keep his magic out of sight but still at the ready.

  No one said a word as the driver opened his trunk from the inside of the car before getting out. Water fell off the brim of his cap that had the name of a delivery app company stamped across it. “Uh, did one of you order the extra-large pepperoni?”

  “I did,” Jono said.

  Jono moved between the two packs to accept the pizza box from the driver. Patrick stared mournfully at the box Jono held and how quickly the cardboard was getting drenched.

  “I’m getting cold pizza tonight, aren’t I?” Patrick said.

  Jono turned his back on the delivery driver in order to deal with the werecreatures who’d crossed into their territory uninvited. He waited until the guy drove off before saying, “Start talking.”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Our packs live in apartment buildings across the street from each other.”

  “They’re not sharing the block how we agreed,” the man said.

  “You took over our north corner without asking.”

  Jono held up one hand, and they both clamped their mouths shut. “You shouldn’t have come here. It’s not safe for you.”

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest, the puffer coat she wore bunching at the elbows. The faux fur lining the hood was the same dark brown color as her skin. “We had no other choice because…”

  Her voice trailed off, the silence that followed full of explanations Patrick didn’t need to guess at. God packs existed to protect the packs within their territories. That meant being in the public eye so others could live in hiding, but it also meant mediating problems between the packs under their care.

  Estelle and Youssef were fucking terrible at that.

  Back in August, they’d discovered the god pack alphas were selling independent werecreatures to a drug cartel and the Manhattan Night Court when it had been ruled by Tremaine. That master vampire was dead now, killed by his sire. Patrick had ignored Lucien’s dealings for months since the fight against Santa Muerte and Tremaine at Grand Central Terminal. He hadn’t ignored the shitty way Estelle and Youssef ruled over the packs who called the five boroughs home.

  When Jono was an independent, there were times other werecreatures would discreetly meet with him for advice. It should have been Estelle and Youssef they went to, and it said a lot about the situation in New York that they’d gone to Jono before he even had a pack.

  If that’s what this situation was about, Patrick knew they couldn’t turn the werecreatures away no matter how badly he wanted to. This wasn’t the first time since August they had been approached for advice rather than needing to defend their territory and status, but it was the first time it had happened at home.

  Jono studied the werecreatures for a long few seconds before looking over at where Patrick stood. “Wade’s here.”

  “He better not touch my pizza.” Patrick bent over to grab the grocery bags. “I’ll conduct hospitality if you really want to do it.”

  “Rather you get inside where it’s warm. No sense in having a chat where everyone can hear.” Jono nodded at the apartment building’s door. “You lot, get moving.”

  The werecreatures let Jono go first to open the door and filed up after him. Patrick strengthened his personal shields and raised one between Jono and the two packs, not taking any chances. He knew Jono could take care of himself, but it made Patrick feel better about the situation.

  He closed his umbrella and walked up after everyone else, keeping the mageglobe between himself and the last werecreature in the group. More than one of them looked over their shoulder at Patrick, the wariness in their eyes impossible to miss. No one said a word until Jono let everyone into their home and the heart of their territory. A wave of hot air greeted Patrick, and he sighed in relief as he nudged the door shut with his elbow. He extinguished the mageglobe with a thought.

  “Did you bring snacks?”

  Patrick looked over at where Wade Espinoza was sprawled on the couch, eyeing the grocery bags hopefully. The Christmas tree that Jono had insisted on buying and decorating stood in front of the windows overlooking the street. The glow from strings of colorful, blinking lights was reflected in Wade’s brown eyes.

  The eighteen-year-old fledgling fire dragon had filled out quite a bit since August when Patrick and Jono had rescued him from Tezcatlipoca, an Aztec god who owned the Omacatl Cartel. He was still lean though, courtesy of a high metabolism, and a walking bottomless pit for a stomach.

  Technically, Wade was legally an adult, but mentally and emotionally he still needed a lot of support after what he’d been through. Wade had a lot of lingering issues that stemmed from being forced to fight to the death to stay alive since he was fourteen. That sort of trauma wasn’t easily overcome without help.

  Three months of biweekly therapy visits paid out of Patrick’s own pocket had given Wade somewhere safe to channel his emotions over what he’d endured. Jono’s paycheck covered most of the food for all of them even though Wade didn’t live with them. Wade had put on weight and looked like a normal teenager these days rather than a starved, half-feral kid.

  “Did you eat dinner?” Patrick asked.

  “He ate,” Jono said, going into the kitchen to put the pizza box on the counter. “Made him spag bol.”

  “Yeah, but I’m hungry again. You’re out of snacks,” Wade complained. “My cupboard here is empty.”

  “If you didn’t devour a week’s worth of snacks in a single day, maybe you’d have some left over.” Patrick dug into one of the grocery bags and pulled out a box of Pop-Tarts, which he threw at Wade. “Don’t touch my pizza.”

  Wade caught the box and tore into it, pulling out a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts. He ripped it open and stuffed one into his mouth to take a bite, never taking his eyes off the werecreatures. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

  “A headache,” Patrick replied as he followed Jono into the kitchen.

  Patrick set the wet grocery bags on the floor to deal with later. While Jono went to get everyone situated, Patrick grabbed six glasses from the cupboard and filled them with water. A couple of slices of white bread was all that was left in the bag on top of the refrigerator, but it was enough to parcel out into six pieces.

  Patrick carried everything out to the dining table in two trips, lining up the glasses and dropping a piece of bread near each one. He gestured at the offering. “Be welcome.”

  The werecreatures didn’t move, not until Jono cleared his throat. “We’re not discussing anything until you lot accept hospitality. If you decline, you can leave.”

  The woman and man—alphas of their respective packs, Patrick assumed—stepped forward to pass out the glasses and bread to their people.

  Hospitality greetings were binding welcomes that protected a person’s hearth and home. Breaking the welcome meant the transgressor was never able to cross the threshold and enter the home again. Patrick could feel the threshold wrapped around the apartment react to the intent of the act, magic prickling against the shields he still had up. The werecreatures seemed oblivious to the subtle power.

  “You got this?” Patrick asked Jono.

  “Go eat your pizza, Pat.”

  Patrick retreated to the kitchen and popped open the pizza box. He half listened to the conversation happening in the other room, but most of his attention was on his dinner. The pizza was still warm, and Patrick chewed his way through two pieces before slowing down long enough to grab a plate. Piling two more slices onto it, he carried the plate out of the kitchen.

  Wade had raised the volume on the television a little, attention focused on the hockey game. It must have been a West Coast game to be broadcasted so late.

  “Did you finish your homework?” Patrick wanted to know.

  “Yes,” Wade said, eyes glued to the flat-screen television.

&nbs
p; Jono paused in whatever he was discussing with the two packs and said, “Wade.”

  “What? I finished!”

  Patrick snorted. “Finished putting the homework away or actually doing it?”

  “It’s an essay, and it’s not due until next week.”

  “Do your homework,” Patrick and Jono said in unison.

  Wade scowled and reached for the remote to turn off the television. He dragged his backpack onto the couch with a loud, obnoxious sigh. Patrick rolled his eyes at the dramatics of it all.

  Sage Beacot, the fourth member of their pack, had helped Wade enroll in the Manhattan Educational Opportunity Center out of the Borough of Manhattan Community College. They’d started him off in the Introduction to High School Equivalency course that would lead into the HSE Diploma course. Wade hadn’t finished high school due to running away at the age of fourteen and being subsequently kidnapped. He was basically starting over from scratch, and they were all determined to support his efforts.

  Even though he was a dragon, Wade still thought of himself as mostly human and wanted to do human things. Patrick and Jono had both agreed Wade was better off going to school than working a low-wage job or joining the military. Getting Wade to focus was easier on some days than on others. They had better luck if he was here visiting or sleeping over at their place rather than staying at his own apartment. He didn’t live with them, because Patrick knew the importance of having your own space after surviving something that should have killed you.

  The one-bedroom apartment Wade called home in the East Village wasn’t technically part of their territory, but Patrick had made it clear that Wade was pack and under their protection. Marek Taylor, a tech billionaire who owned the PreterWorld social media company and was the United States’ one true seer, had covered Wade’s rent for a full year. It was one less thing Patrick had to worry about.