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

  Taking another bite of pizza, Patrick wandered over to where Jono was huddled with the two packs at their dining table. The table was circular, but the two packs had still managed to stay separated around it. Jono sat on a chair between them, listening to their varied arguments about who owned what territory on a single street in the Bronx.

  Territory in large metropolitan cities was almost always measured in blocks rather than square miles. Packs claimed territory through agreements or fights, allowing pass-through rights to other packs if the rivalry wasn’t huge. Borders were expanded or lost one house at a time, and that seemed to be the case here, mostly perpetuated by a newly arrived independent werecreature renting a home on the corner. Which meant Marco’s Escorpión pack had encroached on Letitia’s Gold pack, and no one was happy.

  “Asking the independent to give up their miniscule territory on the corner isn’t an option. Have they ever gone before the other god pack about territory other than during the initial move into the Bronx?” Jono said.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Letitia said.

  “Fine. I’ll take their territory into consideration even though they aren’t represented here.”

  “If they want their territory, then they should be here. They aren’t, so I don’t see why they matter,” Marco retorted.

  Jono raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask them to come with you?”

  The silence from both packs was indicative of a resounding no. Patrick finished his third slice of pizza. Before starting on his fourth, Patrick flicked his fingers over the wet Henley stretched across Jono’s shoulders, sending a drying charm coursing through Jono’s clothes. Steam puffed up from his clothes and shoes. Jono tilted his head toward Patrick in silent thanks.

  Patrick didn’t do the same for himself, because he had plans to shower with Jono the second everyone left.

  “You came to me, not Estelle and Youssef,” Jono pointed out. “My pack doesn’t decide shit the way they do. Which means we’re not going to deny someone their right to territory just because they aren’t present and didn’t know to be present. That’s not a game we play.”

  “We?” Letitia asked carefully, gaze flickering Patrick’s way.

  “We,” Jono stated in a hard voice. “Patrick co-leads our pack. You have a problem with that, then the door is right behind you.”

  Patrick took another bite of his pizza and stared them down. The uncomfortable silence lasted a few more seconds before they went back to arguing their respective cases before Jono. Patrick finished his slice of pizza and was contemplating a fifth when his phone rang.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered. He set the plate down and wiped his fingers clean on his jeans before pulling his phone out of his pocket to answer it. “Collins. Line and location are not secure.”

  “Make yourself secure,” Special Agent in Charge Henry Ng replied.

  Patrick headed for the master bedroom. He closed the door behind him and used his finger to write out a silence ward on the wood. He pushed his magic out of his tainted soul and into the ward, letting static fill the bedroom. The world went quiet around him. All the werecreatures in the other room wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation he was about to have.

  Wade could, because magic didn’t work on dragons, but the teenager knew better than to talk about what he overheard around people who weren’t pack.

  “Secured, sir,” Patrick said. “Is this about the kappas? I turned in my report.”

  “No. This is different. We got a report of a missing child.”

  “That’s usually a police matter, not federal, unless it crosses state lines.”

  “It becomes ours when it’s believed the child was replaced by a changeling.”

  Patrick banged his forehead lightly against the door a couple of times. Crossing the veil between worlds definitely put a case within federal jurisdiction. “Gods fucking damn it. I hate dealing with the fae. Are you sure?”

  “The PCB forwarded the case at the couple’s request. They want an agent to take their statement, and they want it done immediately.”

  “Tonight? Sir, if it’s a changeling, the kid will still be there tomorrow morning.”

  “Tonight,” Henry said firmly. “I know you just got off the clock, but I need you to take this case. The family involved is the Wisterias.”

  Patrick banged his forehead against the door one more time for good measure. “Well, fuck.”

  The Wisterias were a rich, powerful blueblood family of witches and warlocks, who had cornered the potions market during the Gilded Age. They considered their conservative family its own coven, who only admitted new members when those new people married into the family. The Wisterias were politically and magically well connected, having supported some of the more xenophobic policies and candidates the government had put forth over the years.

  Patrick was not looking forward to dealing with them.

  “What’s the address?” he asked. Henry rattled it off and Patrick committed it to memory. “Let them know I’m on my way.”

  “They’ll be informed.”

  Henry ended the call. Patrick sighed tiredly before dragging his hand over the sigil on the door to break up his magic. The silence ward faded away, sound returning to his ears. Patrick looked down at his damp clothes and scuffed combat boots and made a face. Not the sort of clothes he should probably meet the Wisterias in, but if he was going back into the storm tonight, he wasn’t getting two outfits rained on.

  Yanking open the bedroom door, Patrick headed back to the dining area, surprised to see the packs had disappeared. Jono still sat at the dining table, staring blankly at the opposite wall where they’d hung a watercolor print of the London skyline.

  “Did they leave or are they coming back?” Patrick asked.

  Jono blinked, looking over at him. “They’re gone. They accepted my decision.”

  “Which was?”

  “An equal reduction of territory on the street to compensate for the independent weregrizzly, and one pack dinner a month to work out a possible alliance between the three.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “We’ll see if they accept it or turn to Estelle and Youssef.”

  “If they came to you, I doubt they’ll run to those two.”

  “Maybe. I think they’re mine,” Jono said slowly. “I think when I gave the order for Nicholas to change form in the challenge ring, those two alphas shifted as well. So maybe they’ll abide.”

  “Yours, huh?” He hadn’t been present that day in August when Jono had left to meet with the god pack alphas and came back having claimed Sage as part of their pack. He couldn’t say he minded the results. “Then maybe you’re right and they will listen.”

  Jono shrugged, getting to his feet. “What was your call about?”

  Patrick sighed. “I have a case. I need to go interview someone.”

  “Right now? In this weather? Please tell me it’s not those bloody water bastards again.”

  “The kappas? Nah, that case finished today. Something different. There’s a missing child.”

  “If you’re this busy when Gerard gets here, I don’t know when you’ll have the time to see him.”

  “I’ll make time.” Patrick smiled crookedly. “I have to, remember?”

  Captain Gerard Breckenridge was Patrick’s former commanding officer and leader of the Hellraisers, Patrick’s old Special Forces team. It’d been over three years since Patrick last wore the Mage Corps uniform, but Gerard would never hold that against him.

  Gerard and a couple other teammates Patrick had fought with were taking a few days out of their leave to come to New York. Part of that reason was to make good on a promise to have Patrick buy them all drinks and to check up on him. Mostly, they were coming to meet with him about the off-the-record mission General Noah Reed had assigned all of them. The three-star Army general—who was a fire dragon in human form—hadn’t let Patrick’s lack of uniform stop him from handing out orders and expecting to be obeyed.

&nb
sp; The Morrígan’s staff, once thought locked away in the United States’ Repository in Area 51, had gone missing during the Thirty-Day War three and a half years ago—or so that was what Odin’s ravens had led Patrick to believe. While gods were known to lie, Patrick knew in his gut they weren’t lying about this.

  An audit on the staff after Patrick’s meeting with Reed in August proved it was missing. No one knew who had it. No one knew for certain who had stolen it in the first place, though most laid the blame on Ethan Greene and the Dominion Sect. Ethan’s quest to claim a godhead had nearly destroyed Manhattan back in summer. His desire for power was a dangerous thing that Patrick was intimately familiar with.

  All anyone knew was that the staff—and whatever magic a war goddess had bestowed upon it—could not end up in Ethan Greene’s hands.

  The Hellraisers had been tasked with finding the weapon, as had Special Agent Nadine Mulroney and several other small groups of federal agents within the Preternatural Intelligence Agency. Patrick’s best friend had been read in on the mission before he had because Nadine was PIA.

  Patrick didn’t blame General Reed for keeping the SOA out of the loop despite equal control of the Repository shared between the two agencies and branch of military. SOA Director Setsuna Abuku was still trying to clean house at their agency.

  At the end of the day, Ethan was his father, and Patrick had a soul debt owned by a different goddess that said this was his problem above all others who might lay claim to it.

  Patrick was looking forward to seeing his old team again, he only wished it was under better circumstances.

  “If you gotta leave, can I have the rest of your pizza?” Wade asked. “I’m hungry.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “You’re always hungry.”

  Jono leaned down to kiss him, lips dry and warm against his own. “I’ll wait up for you.”

  “I don’t know how long this interview will take.”

  “Like I said.” Jono nipped at his mouth, sending a shiver down Patrick’s spine. “I’ll wait up.”

  After months of coming home to Jono, it still felt like a revelation some days. Despite the soulbond tying them together, Patrick was learning to believe that Jono stayed not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

  “See you later,” Patrick said.

  He left the apartment, only pausing long enough to retrieve his umbrella from the bin on the landing where they stored them. Walking down the stairs, Patrick headed back into the storm.

  2

  The Upper East Side mansion Patrick found himself standing in front of in the downpour was guarded by gargoyles that moved over the façade of the building in a menacing manner. Patrick ignored the stone creatures and rang the doorbell again, counting the seconds between the flash of lightning in the sky and the thunder that inevitably followed.

  The winter storm churning right on top of Manhattan came with a cold viciousness he would appreciate better if he were home. Even with his umbrella, shields, and heat charm filling his leather jacket, Patrick was still cold. He pressed the doorbell button again, unable to hear the sound through the silence ward sunk into the home’s threshold.

  “Come on, hurry up,” Patrick muttered.

  It took another minute before the door was opened by a woman in her midtwenties. She wore a long sweater with a thick turtleneck collar over skinny jeans tucked into knee-high fashionable riding boots. Her blonde hair was twisted into a low bun, and her brown eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Mrs. Wisteria?” Patrick asked, not sure if he had the right woman as he lifted his badge. She didn’t feel like a witch to his magic. “I’m Special Agent Patrick Collins with the SOA.”

  The woman shook her head, giving him a tremulous smile. “No, sorry. I’m the nanny. My name is Arianna. Mr. and Mrs. Wisteria are upstairs with the police. I can take you to them.”

  Patrick crossed the threshold, and Arianna gestured at the pile of bread and glass pitcher of room temperature water sitting on a side table. “Hospitality first. It’s required by the family for all who enter.”

  Patrick went through the motions without a fuss, sensing the home’s threshold settling once he’d partaken in the ceremony. After he finished, Arianna led him through a mansion that was less a home and more a museum, filled with expensive art and even more expensive artifacts of magic. The feel of witch magic was strong in the home, recognition flickering through Patrick’s soul.

  The magic lacked warmth, feeling cold and sterile to his senses—much like the couple he was introduced to in a nursery painted in soft yellow and pastel green. The colors couldn’t warm the icy reception he was given.

  Arianna made an immediate beeline for the crib where a baby close to a year old stood on surprisingly steady legs, tiny hands clutching at the wooden safety bars keeping her in one place. Patrick didn’t have much familiarity with children, but he didn’t think most babies had that sort of steadiness in their chubby little legs at this age.

  She was Patrick’s sort of pale but lacked the pinkish hue most redheads carried in their skin. Her skin was porcelain fair, with no freckles. Her hair was pitch-black, eyes a dark brown, the irises slightly too large to be normal, even for a baby.

  She watched everything with an awareness that was unsettling. She carried no real resemblance to her parents, both of whom stood some distance away talking with a pair of detectives out of the NYPD’s Preternatural Crimes Bureau. The handful of cases Patrick had partnered with the PCB on over the last few months usually came directly from Bureau Chief Giovanni Casale. Tonight felt as if Patrick was intruding more than usual.

  Thomas Wisteria was tall and blond, looking every inch the businessman he was in the bespoke suit he wore. The arrogance he exuded was difficult to miss.

  Margeaux Wisteria’s brown hair fell in loose waves around her pretty face. She wore diamonds in her ears, and the stone on her engagement ring was so large it dipped to the side of her finger. The gold of her jewelry matched the small athame hooked to her designer leather belt. Margeaux’s full mouth was curved in a frown, brown eyes focused on the detectives. Her gaze snapped to Patrick the moment he arrived though, and she stared at him with a modicum of distrust he chose to ignore.

  Recognition pricked Patrick’s magic, telling him Margeaux was the blood member of the Wisteria family. Patrick had his shields locked down tight, keeping his magic from seeping out. He knew he felt human to her own magic, and he wondered how that would color their interactions if she didn’t recognize his name. Some old witch families considered themselves superior to mundane humans in every way that mattered.

  Patrick couldn’t remember if his mother’s family had ever been that way. Clara Greene, née Patterson, had been born into the Salem Coven, expected to be their next high priestess. Only she’d been murdered by his father, and Patrick was assumed dead as well. In reality, he’d been living under a false identity that had kept him safe from Ethan and the Dominion Sect until the Thirty-Day War.

  It was a false sense of safety and security. No matter the name Patrick went by, Persephone still owned his soul debt.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wisteria, I’m Special Agent Patrick Collins,” Patrick said, flashing his badge at them before tucking it away in his back pocket.

  Margeaux’s gaze sharpened. “Are you the mage who was involved in the summer solstice mess?”

  Patrick managed not to wince. “I’m not here about past cases, ma’am. You requested the SOA send someone to check on your child.”

  “She’s not our child,” Thomas said.

  The taller detective turned to face Patrick. He was an older man, not someone Patrick had ever interacted with before. His younger partner was just as unfamiliar.

  “They’re saying the child is a changeling,” one of the detectives said.

  Patrick looked over at where Arianna was holding the baby in her arms, murmuring softly to her charge. The little girl had her head turned toward them, those large dark eyes staring at Patrick with an unblinking gaze.
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  “How about you walk me through your reasoning?” Patrick said to the Wisterias.

  “Can’t you read his notes?” Margeaux asked, gesturing at the detective.

  “I need to make my own.” He hadn’t brought anything to write on, so Patrick pulled out his phone to access the recording app. “I’ll take it from here, Detectives.”

  The man nodded, and Arianna moved to show him and his partner out.

  “Leave it here,” Thomas snapped.

  Patrick bristled at the use of it but held his tongue. Arianna ducked her head, cheeks flushing with anger or embarrassment; Patrick couldn’t tell.

  “Of course, Mr. Wisteria,” Arianna murmured.

  She set the baby back into the crib, gently patting her head in a silent goodbye. Arianna left with the detectives. The little girl watched her leave but didn’t make a sound.

  “What’s her name?” Patrick asked.

  “Our nanny?” Thomas replied.

  “Your daughter.”

  Both bristled at the suggestion the baby in the crib was theirs, but Patrick pretended not to notice.

  “She’s not our daughter,” Margeaux said coolly.

  Patrick hit the Record button on his app. “Then explain to me what happened. How old is she?”

  “Our daughter would be the same age. Ten months, three weeks,” Thomas said.

  “When did you suspect she wasn’t yours? Have you done a DNA test?”

  “No. We don’t need one. I know she isn’t ours,” Margeaux said. “I want our daughter found. Surely the SOA has fae contacts it can reach out to and demand the return of our child?”

  “That would require going through diplomatic channels, ma’am. The fae are considered members of sovereign nations.”

  “Then maybe you should wake up a diplomat,” Thomas snapped with all the expectation of being obeyed.