A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound #4) - Hailey Turner Page 0,83
that until after they eat us,” Patrick replied.
“I’m not gonna be dinner. What do we do?”
“You die,” a new voice said.
Patrick spun on his feet, raising his dagger in the direction of the newest threat. “Hades.”
Jono half turned, keeping himself between the other two and the god walking toward them. Hellhounds moved around his body in sinuous motion, the black animals with their fiery red eyes never looking away from their prey.
The Greek god of the Underworld wore a suit beneath a knee-length wool coat dusted with snow. His dark hair was stylishly trimmed, and his dark eyes stood out like holes in his corpse-pale face. Jono only vaguely recalled the god from his time as Ethan’s hostage on the sacrificial circle, but the threat was enough for Fenrir to take over.
Getting shoved to the side in his mind was never easy to accept. Losing control of his body always left Jono with a bit of hindbrain panic that Fenrir would never give it back. But the situation didn’t allow for dwelling on the unknown, just a threat.
“Cousin,” Fenrir said, the syllables coming out strangely in Jono’s wolf mouth, like the cracking of bones.
“You seem to be on the wrong side of the hunt, Fenrir,” Hades said.
“What did you do to Hannah?” Patrick demanded harshly.
Hades’ attention turned away from Jono and Fenrir to Patrick, the ugly hate in the god’s eyes making Jono want to raise his hackles. “I have done nothing to my daughter’s vessel, nor to her.”
“Bullshit. You only sold Macaria’s life to Ethan.”
Patrick held his dagger steady between them, his hair a mess. He’d lost the beanie in the crash, but not his nerve if his scent was anything to go by. The magic pouring through Jono’s soul and into the ring of mageglobes that flared to life around Patrick was a steady rush not commanded by fear.
Hades’ expression didn’t change, but the ozone scent spiked with a rage that tasted like how static felt when it hit Jono’s tongue. Fenrir moved his body to the edge of Patrick’s shield, eyeing the hellhounds that stalked around them in a circle for a moment. Jono wanted to track their movements, but Fenrir chose to focus on Garmr. Hel’s favored hound smelled electric, like the air after a storm.
Immortal, but no god, Fenrir told him.
Jono was never certain of the difference, but in a fight they were both dangerous. Fenrir pressed Jono’s snout against Patrick’s magic; the buzz of it echoed in his soul. With a snarl, they walked through the shield, the soulbond giving them a way through that wouldn’t tear down the shield and hurt Patrick. Being tied together made it easier, or maybe Fenrir did.
“You chose the wrong side,” Hades said, raising a hand to point in Jono and Fenrir’s direction. “And your vessel will pay for it.”
To that, Fenrir howled an unearthly challenge that drew the hellhounds to them in a pack of death Jono wasn’t afraid to face. Fenrir charged to meet them, though several were blown aside by the mageglobe Patrick threw at the pack. Fenrir kicked one in the throat with a hind leg before spinning to face Garmr’s advance.
Fenrir used Jono’s body like the weapon it was, sinking into a killing focus that left acidic blood strewn across the snow. It reminded Jono of the fight at the Gap of Dunloe in Ireland, when they faced off against Medb’s side. Less of the enemy, but the threat was the same.
Jono’s claws sank into burning flesh, the acid scoring his fur and skin before healing in seconds. Fenrir’s presence in him was enough to survive the sulfuric acid that gave the hellhounds life.
The attack aimed at them by Hades was a different story entirely.
Jono and Fenrir saw the hellfire bomb flying toward them through the snow and had only a single second to twist out of the way. It scorched his fur as they retreated, the smell of burning fur reaching his nose. It exploded close by, sending dirt and snow and burning bits of flame into the air. The only reason they didn’t get a face full of hellfire was the shield Patrick erected between them and the bomb.
Fenrir launched them away from the epicenter and that wall of protection, dodging the fallout even as the hellhounds cut in close, surrounding them. Fenrir growled a furious warning—and the sound was echoed by the rumbling thunder of motorcycle engines.
The valkyries’ battle cries cut through the air with a shriek that would’ve made