A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound #4) - Hailey Turner Page 0,90

end. He took a moment to try to tamp it down, to shove it aside and ignore it.

“I’m fine,” Patrick replied.

“You don’t feel fine, Pat.”

“Hermes is annoying. Don’t worry, he didn’t take us through the veil like Fenrir did for you.” At Jono’s startled silence, Patrick grimaced. “Yeah, forgot about that, didn’t you?”

“Pat—”

“Later. I don’t want to hear it right now.”

Patrick ended the call. He gripped his phone to stop himself from digging his nails into his palms. Persephone never looked away from his face, the faint curve of her mouth knowing in a way he didn’t like.

She was dressed in winter clothing, her gold-brown skin glowing healthily beneath the bright overhead lights. Her curly, dark brown hair was barely tamed beneath a beanie with a pom-pom. The freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks never seemed to change, no matter the months or years between their meetings.

“You’ve never met my mother,” Persephone said, nodding at the woman who sat opposite of her.

Patrick’s gaze snapped to the Greek goddess of harvest and so much more, mouth dry and at a loss for words. Demeter studied him with crystalline blue eyes, giving nothing away. Her straight white hair fell to her shoulders in a fashionable long bob, the faint wrinkles on her face barely aging her. Her winter clothes were more fashionable than Persephone’s, and the black fur coat draped over the back of her chair dragged on the floor.

His fingers itched with an electric burn that caused them to exude a pop of static electricity when he pulled back a chair to sit down. He shoved his phone into his jacket pocket, letting it go with some effort. Half a dozen donuts were left in a box that held twelve, but Patrick didn’t reach for one.

“So.” Patrick cleared his throat. “Why are you in Chicago?”

“Because this is where Macaria is,” Persephone said.

“Right.” Patrick glanced at Demeter. “Are you here for emotional support?”

Demeter reached for a blueberry donut, tearing it into bite-sized pieces. “I am here because of the spell which was cast that pulled power from the nexus.”

“It wasn’t a sacrificial one.”

“And yet, I hear Odin is missing.”

“He’s not dead yet.”

Demeter popped a piece of donut into her mouth and chewed slowly. She didn’t blink, and Patrick tried not to squirm beneath her gaze. Her aura was a flickering, golden glow around her that thankfully didn’t burn his eyes. He wondered if she had dimmed it out of politeness for his presence or if the people who remembered her were thin on the ground these days.

“The spell wasn’t for Odin,” Persephone said.

What little warmth Patrick had felt walking into the shop evaporated at her words. A chill settled in his bones that no amount of heat charms embedded in his leather jacket could cure.

“Then who was it for?” he asked, thinking of the pentagram on that hardwood floor in Westberg’s home. All the candles and figurines and blood spilled for a reason no one knew—except Demeter seemed to.

“They were for Macaria. They were to Freyr,” Demeter said.

Patrick rubbed at his eyes hard enough he had to blink away black spots when he opened them again. “Freyr. He’s—what? The Norse god of fair weather, which we could use, and—”

Patrick snapped his mouth shut so fast his teeth caught the edge of his tongue, cutting into it. The taste of blood filtered over his tongue, but he hardly noticed it. He stared at Demeter, stomach churning badly.

Persephone folded her hands together, nails digging into the sun-kissed skin over her bones. “Fertility.”

Patrick shoved himself to his feet, hurried to the garbage bin near the door, and puked up everything left in his stomach from lunch and enough bile it came out of his nose. He heaved for a few seconds more, clammy and cold. It felt as if his world had been ripped apart all over again, the same way his soul had twisted from the backlash running through his twin’s.

A warm hand settled on the back of his neck. He jerked away from the touch, breathing harshly through his mouth, wishing he had a bottle of whiskey at hand to wash away the sour taste.

“No,” Patrick rasped out, staring at Persephone, only dimly aware that no one was paying any attention to them.

“Freyr may not be of our pantheon, but like knows like. Fertility spells resonate because of the life they gift to those asking.”

“No.”

Persephone stepped closer, bringing with her the scent of spring that wasn’t strong enough to overpower the taste