A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound #4) - Hailey Turner Page 0,99
street as far as they could go until they hit a police blockade at the intersection near Au Hall. Patrick turned and pulled over to the curb. He killed the engine and tossed the keys in the glove compartment. The lights and sirens switched off, but the roar of the wind never faltered.
“Ready?” Jono asked, fingers curling over the door handle.
Patrick nodded. “Let’s go.”
Jono shoved open the SUV door and stepped out into freezing cold. Despite always running hot, the cold stung his skin. Brynhildr and Eir jumped the curb and pulled up onto the sidewalk. Jono rounded the SUV and helped Patrick get his door open so he could get out.
Both valkyries raised the visors on their helmets, Patrick’s mageglobe washing pale blue light over their eyes and the grim expressions on their faces.
“We’ve been searching for you,” Brynhildr practically yelled to be heard over the wind. “We can’t reach Thor.”
Jono closed Patrick’s door once he was out of the way. Wade and Hermes had made it out of the SUV and onto the sidewalk. Jono had to grab Wade by the collar of his sweater and hold him back when the teenager would’ve gone to greet the valkyries.
“The SOA’s necromancer raised the dead today. Body we found was Dean Westberg. Someone’s been impersonating him since probably last week,” Patrick said.
Eir turned her head, staring at Hermes. “Cousin. What are you doing here? You’ve never cared for Chicago.”
Hermes wasn’t dressed for the weather, but the cold didn’t seem to bother him. “I’ve never cared for the bridges your pantheon builds to the other side. You’ve misplaced a hole in New York City. Feel free to take it back.”
“Ginnungagap goes where it likes,” Brynhildr said.
“I thought Lucien made a deal over that void?” Patrick asked.
Brynhildr shrugged. “His mother did.”
“With Odin?”
“With Ginnungagap.”
Patrick hunched his shoulders against the wind and started walking. “Hermes said the veil feels off.”
Brynhildr swung herself off the motorcycle, not bothering with the kickstand, and took off her helmet. The motorcycle revved its engine, and she patted one of the handlebars before leaving it behind. “We cannot cross it.”
“Is that normal?” Jono asked, practically shouting to be heard.
“Crossing the veil is always difficult these days, but something else fills it along the shores here.”
“There was something in the river,” Wade said.
“Chicago shares the edge of the world with Lake Michigan.”
“It’s a lake,” Patrick said, lengthening his stride. “Not the damn Marianas Trench.”
“This is no ordinary storm, and what is building in it is no ordinary pressure,” Eir said.
“Fuck all you gods and your damn wars. If Chicago is ground zero for your Ragnarök, then I’m not getting a bonus this year because the government will pay for the property damage out of my paycheck.”
“We have tithes,” Jono reminded him.
“Shut up and let’s go crash a party.”
They were stopped at the entrance to Au Hall by someone who must have been hired to work the event. She was so bundled up that all Jono could really see was her eyes. “Private event. I need to see your invite.”
Patrick unclipped his badge from his belt and held it up for her to see. “Special Agent Patrick Collins with the SOA. Step aside.”
Her eyes widened and she hesitated, but gave ground when Brynhildr pushed past her with a confidence that could not be ignored. Brynhildr made it to the door—but that was as far as she got. The moment she touched the door handle, Brynhildr was thrown backward by a surge of magic.
Jono moved so fast the wind whistled in his ears, catching Brynhildr before she could hit the street. He grunted, feet sliding in the snow as he went down to one knee from her weight and the force of impact. He looked down at her fiercely angry face, tasting ozone in the back of his throat.
“All right, love?” Jono asked as he helped her back to her feet.
She looked down at her burned and blackened hands, strips of skin peeled off and hanging from the sides of her palms. The remains of her gloves hung from her wrists, half of the leather burned away. Then Eir was there, grabbing Brynhildr’s wrists to get a good look at the wounds.
“Hold still,” Eir said tersely.
She covered Brynhildr’s hands with her own. Silvery magic flickered at the edges of their joined hands for a couple of seconds. When Eir pulled her hands away, Brynhildr’s were completely healed.
Brynhildr yanked the remnants of her gloves off. “That spell is god-made and not one that