All Souls Near & Nigh (Soulbound Book 2) Read online

  Patrick’s experience with vampires and their Night Courts was unique in a way he could’ve done without. He hadn’t crossed paths with any of the Night Courts that claimed the five boroughs as their territory since transferring here. Looked like that was going to change.

  In the grand scheme of things, vampires were still better than dealing with his father and twin sister. Their toxic family reunion back in June could’ve gone worse, but only if Patrick had put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.

  Patrick straightened up, wincing as his bruised muscles pulled from the motion. The witch’s brew could only heal so much. “Anything else I should know about?”

  “Ramirez has the evidence I pulled out of the vic’s pocket,” Catherine said. She put her notepad into its metal carrying case and tucked it under one arm as she stood. “You might want to take a look at it.”

  “Allison?” Patrick called out as he stripped off his nitrile gloves and deposited them in the biohazard bin. “What was the guy carrying?”

  Allison pointed at where evidence bags were laid out on the platform, hastily marked with a Sharpie pen. “Over there.”

  When Patrick got close enough to see, it wasn’t what he was expecting. The first bag carried a handful of white pills, some broken and a few others whole. The intact pills each had a tiny red-black dot staining the center of each one, and Patrick frowned, poking at them through the plastic.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  Allison nodded as she came over. “If you’re thinking shine, then most likely. The drugs still need to be tested and verified.”

  Patrick rubbed at his mouth, staring hard at the pills in the evidence bag. Shine was a drug that had been around for hundreds of years through various iterations. Its origin stemmed from vampires, though historians couldn’t agree on which Night Court first created and introduced it to their human servants.

  These days the demand for shine meant most of it was lab synthesized. Its popularity came and went, but it looked like the city was having another love affair with the drug. The pills showing up this summer were cause for alarm though. Patrick had read a memo the SOA had sent out about them back in May.

  The stuff hitting the streets right now was the real deal. Made with true vampire blood and all its supernatural properties, shine was a potent drug that offered a euphoric, sexual high to those who took it. Highly addictive, it allowed mundane humans the ability to see a person’s aura, the bright shine of a person’s soul that only magic users could sometimes see. Mundane human eyes weren’t meant to process a sight like that, and they craved darkness—any kind of blindness really—while high.

  Vampires had no souls and were more than willing to comfort an addict in the throes of addiction and withdrawal. The drug running through an addict’s veins didn’t affect them, merely gave the blood a different flavor.

  Shine was how some Night Courts enslaved their human servants. Addiction could happen on the first hit, and the list of industrial chemicals that made up the drug could literally rot a person’s brain. Bartering sex and blood to stave off some of the harsher effects of the drug wasn’t a great trade-off. Most people in their right mind didn’t want to be owned by a vampire, but addicts never made rational decisions.

  Some mundane humans liked dancing with the darker aspects of the preternatural world. Magic users who took shine never handled the drug well and almost always ended up on a bad trip. They could already see a person’s aura; shine stripped away their safeguards and could tip their magic dangerously out of control. Patrick, despite using cigarettes and alcohol as a crutch to get through his adult life, had never gone down the black hole of hard drugs.

  As for werecreatures? Patrick knew the god pack had treaties with the Night Courts here marking off territory. The only way to get shine was through street gang dealers or directly from the source. Werecreatures shouldn’t be working for vampires or buying from them, except he had a dead kid that said otherwise, amongst other things.

  Patrick dropped the evidence bag onto the platform and reached for the second one that held a small figurine. Made out of white plastic, the skeleton reaper was shrouded in a hooded robe, carrying a scythe in one hand and a globe in the other. Despite the wards down here, Patrick could sense traces of black magic emanating from the figurine.

  “This is an artifact,” Patrick said, weighing it in his hand. Artifacts, portable objects capable of holding magic that nonmagic users could wield, felt heavier than they looked.

  “Not surprised, considering what it is. Any idol of Santa Muerte is usually handled by a witch in this city. Our evidence bags are lightly warded, so anyone transporting it should be safe enough,” Dwayne said as he approached.

  Patrick was familiar with the religion that had sprung out of Mexico over the last few decades or so and spread through North and South America. It made him uneasy, but not for reasons most people would assume. Worship was a powerful tool for any god or goddess in the modern age, but he didn’t much care for those who presided over the dead.

  Patrick carefully set the sealed figurine down on the platform. “I doubt the kid worshipped Santa Muerte. Possibility of him being either a dealer or a junkie isn’t something we can discount. The toxicology report is going to take weeks to confirm.”

  “The drugs could’ve been planted,” Dwayne said, staring at the body. “Kid is African American. There’s no love lost between black and Mexican gangs. Werecreature aside, he wouldn’t be part of any Mexican gang unless he was killed out of retaliation or for an initiation. If that’s the case, I don’t know why he ended up down here and not in his own turf as a warning.”

  “Something to look into,” Patrick said as he got to his feet.

  “You may want to talk to someone in Narcotics and the Gang Unit. They have a better handle on the shine problem than we do, even if they haven’t tracked it to the source yet,” Allison said.

  Dwayne snorted. “Good luck with that. The DEA has been trying for years. Everyone knows the Omacatl Cartel has a monopoly on shine in the five boroughs, and every gang member the DEA has managed to arrest hasn’t confessed to any alliance with vampires. Been that way for decades. I doubt it’ll change anytime soon.”

  “Killing a werecreature goes against the treaties the Night Courts have with the god pack here though,” Patrick pointed out. “That’s an angle we need to figure out.”

  “We’re always looking for hard evidence to pin on the bloodsucking bastards. Maybe we’ll get lucky with this case.” Dwayne cocked an eyebrow at him. “You can be our lucky charm.”

  Patrick made a face. “Like last time? No, thanks. I’ll let you handle the transport of the body and evidence to your morgue. The sooner we get the autopsy report, the sooner we’ll have some answers.”

  “Not handling it at the federal level?” Allison asked.

  “I am the federal level, but I think everyone will feel a lot better if it all stays within the PCB.”

  He might hate politics, but Patrick could play the game when required. The SOA didn’t have a stellar reputation at the moment, especially here. The PCB, on the other hand, was viewed far more favorably in the public eye right now. Patrick would prefer to work with the PCB rather than work out of the SOA field office, which would cut down on communication issues. His individual efforts with the PCB back in June had gone over a lot better than the SOA as a whole in media polls.

  Besides, Patrick didn’t have an assigned partner, and he’d learned over the years that relying on local help tended to smooth things over.

  “You heading back to the PCB with us?” Dwayne wanted to know.

  Patrick shook his head. “I’m going to run down the werecreature angle.”

  “I don’t envy you talking to the god pack alphas at all.”

  Patrick shrugged and said nothing. Estelle Walker and Youssef Khan were the god pack alphas of New York City, but they weren’t who Patrick was going to talk to.

  2

  Jonothon de Vere�
�s mobile buzzed on the metal desktop where he’d set it while doing up next week’s schedule for the bar. The text notification was from Patrick, and he ignored the open spreadsheet on the MacBook Pro in favor of his mobile. Unlocking it, Jono read the message.

  On my way.

  Jono breathed out a quiet sigh of relief. He set the mobile back down and picked up his mug of tea, taking a sip. He’d brought the box of PG Tips from home, along with the small electric teakettle that no one else ever used. Tempest was a bar that catered to the werecreature community and served up craft brew and cocktails. While Jono would normally be behind the counter helping out the two bartenders on shift, Wednesdays were usually slow, and he’d opted to retreat to the employees-only room in the back to do some paperwork.

  It was tedious, but part of his job as bar manager for Tempest. On the flip side, it kept him away from other people. With Patrick having been gone a week for an SOA case, Jono hadn’t been the friendliest of blokes lately. He knew his surliness had everything to do with his only pack member being gone and the soulbond tying them together drawn tight with distance.

  The heaviness deep inside his soul had eased over the last few hours, coinciding with Patrick’s return. Now, Jono was counting down the minutes instead of the hours until he saw the mage again.

  Jono took another sip of his tea before getting back to work, the heat of the drink not bothering him. He managed to wrangle the schedule for next week into some semblance of order when a familiar heartbeat cut through the muffled noise of the bar beyond the closed door. Jono turned his head and was half out of his chair when the door pushed open without a knock.

  “Bloody hell, mate,” Jono swore, reaching for Patrick. “What happened?”

  Patrick kicked the door shut behind him, which was fine with Jono because it gave him something sturdy to shove the other man up against. Gently, though, because Jono didn’t know what other injuries Patrick sported besides the ones on his face. Jono framed Patrick’s face with his hands, staring at the slightly swollen nose with a strip of medical tape arching over the freckled bridge and faded bruises around bloodshot, tired green eyes.

  “I took a potion. I’m fine,” Patrick said, blinking at him.

  Jono rolled his eyes before sliding his right hand down to Patrick’s throat, discreetly scent-marking him. The stench of travel, of too many bodies packed too closely together, clung to him. Beneath that was a hint of forest and blood, neither of which stopped Jono from worrying. Beneath all that was the familiar, bitter scent that was Patrick’s alone and had come to mean home to Jono.

  “Fine doesn’t look like you took several punches to the face.”

  Patrick’s mouth quirked at the corners. “Gonna kiss it better?”

  “Cheeky. Could’ve just asked rather than go out looking for a fight.”

  “Hazard of the job.”

  “Bollocks.”

  Jono shook his head before leaning down to gently press his mouth to Patrick’s. Those familiar plush lips immediately parted, letting Jono in. The quiet sigh he drank down told him more than words how tired Patrick must be. The mage wasn’t one to show weakness, even amongst friends, but Jono had started to learn the little quirks and half-hidden actions that spoke of Patrick’s true feelings.

  Patrick was still a hard read on the best of days, soulbond or not, but Jono was figuring him out.

  “Gonna ward the office,” Patrick said once Jono broke the kiss. His hands had fallen to Jono’s waist, fingers plucking at the gray short-sleeved button-down he wore.

  Jono frowned but didn’t protest the action. Neither did he move, content to stay where he was, hands sliding beneath the black T-shirt Patrick wore. He pressed his palms against warm skin, reveling in the closeness after a week alone and liking the way Patrick arched into his touch.

  “You’re not going to move, are you?” Patrick grumbled.

  Jono pressed a kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. “You’ve been gone. Allow me this.”

  Patrick leaned forward, resting his forehead against Jono’s shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Jono saw him raise a hand and conjure up a mageglobe.

  The small, pale blue sphere of raw magic pulsed once. The silence ward that Patrick cast filled the back room with a wash of static, the white noise a barrier even Jono’s enhanced hearing couldn’t break through. The bar, and all its myriad of noises, went silent around them. Patrick flexed his fingers and the mageglobe floated away to hover near his shoulder.

  They stood like that for a moment in the quiet, leaning into each other, the soulbond a distant hum to Jono’s senses. Jono reluctantly let Patrick go after a minute or two, knowing they could no longer put off the conversation.

  He took a step back in the small space and crossed his arms over his chest, never taking his eyes off Patrick. “What’s going on?”

  Patrick carefully knuckled his right eye. Jono reached out and tugged his hand away before he could make the bruises there worse. “I’ve been assigned another case with the PCB.”

  “Okay,” Jono said slowly, not letting Patrick’s hand go. “Is this going to be like the last mess?”

  “Who knows? But I think it might be worse in a way.”

  “Your idea of worse is bloody frightening, anyone ever tell you that?”

  “It’s been mentioned once or twice.”

  Jono sighed and ran his free hand through his black hair. “What’s going on, Pat?”

  “They found a body in the subway tonight. Blood still needs to be typed, but the kid was partially shifted.”

  “Kid?” Jono asked sharply.

  “Teenager,” Patrick amended. “Late teens. I’m wondering if you’ve heard of anyone who has gone missing in the werecreature community lately?”

  Jono frowned. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Until this summer, Jono had been an independent-ranked werewolf, with no pack to claim as his own over the years, either back in London or here in New York. Carrying the god strain of the werevirus meant he should have been absorbed into a god pack, but he had never been accepted by any. He knew now part of that reason was because of the Fates and Patrick, and the rest because of the animal-god patron who clawed at his soul.

  Fenrir was a presence in Jono’s life that had come on slowly and subtly, a voice in the back of his mind that had kept him company off and on through the lonely years of running without a pack. But he had Patrick now, even if no one but his closest friends knew he’d finally formed a pack after living so long without one.

  He and Patrick had told no one about the soulbond.

  “Do you know anyone who could tell me about the independent werecreatures that pass through here? Anyone who isn’t Estelle or Youssef?” Patrick asked.

  Jono scratched at the edge of his jaw, fingernails scraping over the shadow of a beard on his face. “Might do.”

  “Great. Got a number for me?”

  “You already have Sage’s number, but you’ll want to chat with her in person about something like this.”

  Patrick seemed surprised at that announcement. “Sage?”

  “Yeah, mate. She was an independent before Emma took her on.”

  While Jono didn’t have a pack, he’d grown close to those in the Tempest pack. Led by Emma Zhang, she and her partner in all the ways that mattered, Leon Hernandez, were best friends with Marek Taylor, a powerful seer who owned one of the premier social media tech companies in use these days.

  Marek was the one who’d pulled Jono out of London three years ago for reasons that didn’t become apparent until Patrick arrived in New York this past summer. Marek had been dating Sage Beacot well before Jono ever came to the States. Sage was the lone weretiger in a pack of werewolves, though no one ever treated her differently after Emma claimed Sage for her pack.

  The four of them were his friends—family, really—but Jono and Sage had similar backgrounds in how they’d lived within the werecreature community. They’d bonded over that early on after he first arrived to manage the
bar. Jono might have been instructed to not act as an official god pack alpha in any way while living in New York City, but that hadn’t stopped Sage from coming to him for advice.

  “Sage keeps tabs on the independents better than the god pack does. She does pro bono work for them through her law firm when the need arises,” Jono said.

  Patrick grimaced. “I fucking hate dealing with fae lawyers.”

  “Lucky it’s not the fae we’ll be seeing. Right, then. Let’s be off. The sooner you chat with her, the sooner we can go home.”

  The Chelsea flat they called home had felt far too empty over the past week. Jono was keen on dragging Patrick to bed for a full night’s rest.

  “Yeah, all right.”

  Patrick waved his hand through the mageglobe and it vanished, along with the silence ward. Sound rushed back into Jono’s ears with a pop. Enhanced senses meant he could see, hear, and smell better than a mundane human, but control had been hard earned over the years.

  Patrick left the back room and headed out of the bar. Jono took a minute to chat with his closers before joining him outside. The temperature difference between the air-conditioned bar and muggy night air didn’t bother him. Patrick was waiting for him on the sidewalk, mobile pressed to his ear. Jono kicked up his hearing a couple of notches to listen to the conversation on both sides of the line.

  “…you’re sure about the werevirus type?” Patrick was saying. He raised an eyebrow at Jono, jerked his head to the left, and started walking. Jono matched him stride for stride.

  “Werejackal,” a tired-sounding female voice said through the speaker. Her voice echoed with a bit of static in Jono’s ears. “I’m starting the autopsy, and that was the first test I ran.”

  “Send me your preliminary report when you’re finished. I don’t care what time it is, I’ll take it.”

  “It’ll go to you and the chief.”

  “Thanks, Catherine.” Patrick ended the call and shoved his mobile into his pocket. Jono wanted to kiss the scowl off his face. “You heard that?”