A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound #4) - Hailey Turner Page 0,52
that was a few shades darker. He laughed with his whole body in a way that was welcoming to his patrons, and the friendly smile on his face never disappeared.
If Patrick’s magic wasn’t so overwhelmed with the teeth-buzzing knowledge he was in the presence of a god, he might find Thor’s attempt at passing as human friendly if he didn’t know any better. But he did, and when Thor’s keen, blue-eyed gaze swept the crowd to settle on him, Patrick nearly forgot how to breathe.
I hate feeling like prey.
Thor waved at his fellow bartender, a tall, blonde-haired woman who sported a ponytail half made up of braids. She listened to whatever Thor whispered into her ear, her gaze flickering their way. Then she nodded and took over Thor’s spot with a smile, handling the orders from his customers.
Patrick reached behind and grabbed Wade’s wrist, holding on tightly. “Come on.”
Rather than stay where they were, Patrick headed over to the one open spot at the bar—the staff pass-through area everyone was steering clear of. Another electric jolt of recognition burned through his magic when they reached it. Patrick swallowed the taste of ozone, his right hand drifting toward his dagger. The person seated on the last barstool near the pass-through area twisted around to look over at them, dark brown eyes cut through with streaks of silver narrowing to slits.
“Maybe I should’ve taken your bet, Thor,” the immortal said.
The black leather jacket he wore was decorated on the back with a large beaded motorcycle patch in the shape of a colorful bird’s wings. Black fringe lined the front and back on the sides, arching over each shoulder. His black hair was shaved on the sides, with a central mohawk grown long and ending in a thick, tight braid that fell down his back, the end wrapped in red leather.
“Next time you should throw money in the pot, Otenai,” Thor said mildly as he stepped out from behind the bar.
“When am I ever in Chicago long enough to join your favorite pastime?”
“Gambling is my second favorite pastime. I’ve made a living out of my first.”
Otenai threw back his head and laughed, toasting Thor with the beer in his hand that wasn’t the golden color of mead. “That you have, cousin.”
Thor crossed his muscled arms over his broad chest and stared down at Patrick. The Norse god of thunder was taller than Jono, with a presence that made all of Patrick’s hair stand on end. “What brings you to Chicago?”
Patrick swallowed dryly, finding his voice after a second. “I was told I should come speak with you.”
Thor eyed him for a moment before his attention landed on Wade. “The fledgling is underage in this form. I could lose my alcohol license for allowing him in here.”
“Then close up so we can talk.”
“Is what you have to say so important?”
“It’s about your father. He’s in danger.”
Thor’s eyes narrowed before he nodded, more to himself than to Patrick. “Very well.”
Thor went back behind the bar and grabbed a rope attached to an old iron bell that hung from the ceiling. He gave it several hard pulls, the deep clang of the bell echoing through the bar, cutting through all conversation.
“Last call,” Thor boomed. “Drink up, my faithful.”
Rather than the protesting groans Patrick expected to hear, almost everyone at the bar finished their drinks quickly, even if they’d just ordered. People started to cluster at the counter to close out their tabs, or left cash on the tables before leaving the bar. Within fifteen minutes, the only people who remained were the immortals, a couple of employees, Patrick, and Wade.
Patrick nudged Wade toward the bar counter, the two of them claiming stools several down from where Otenai sat. Thor eyed them before grabbing a clean glass from the workspace and pouring a pint of mead. He set the glass in front of Patrick, sliding it over the wood.
“On the house,” Thor said.
“I don’t drink while on the clock,” Patrick said.
“It’s rude to ignore hospitality.”
“This isn’t a home.”
“Ah, but it is.” Thor turned to pick a purple-skinned apple from a bowl near the register and set it next to the pint glass. “Don’t worry. These do not come from Iðunn’s orchard.”
Realizing that he couldn’t get out of performing hospitality under the god’s sharp gaze, Patrick picked up the apple and took a bite. The fruit was crisp and flavorful, a far cry from the out of season ones in the grocery stores these days. He sipped at