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 SOA. 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.