Chapter 22

TWENTY-TWO

Mac was hot, a long-lost sensation, so much of his reaper's existence spent in the cold ether between planes. He wrestled with the tangled sheets, kicking them down so he could roll onto his back, the other side of the bed blissfully cool.

He bolted upright.

Paris wasn't here. Hadn't been for some time, judging by the coolness of the sheets under his hand.

Paris, who had grabbed hold of his soul that night on the altar and hadn't let go.

Paris, who had spent the past two weeks surprising him, impressing him, understanding him.

Paris, who had held him, cared for him, offered him something he'd thought lost forever.

Mac closed his eyes, felt for the bond between their souls, and tugged.

And got no tug in return.

He shot out of the bed.

Suppressing the panic that threatened, he surveyed the room through a detective's eyes. Paris's sweats were gone, his bag of clothes too, and outside the window, the sun shone bright. Two in the afternoon, according to the bedside clock.

Spinning on his heel, he ran into the office. Nothing out of place.

He ran farther, into the sitting room, and skidded to a halt. Two easels stood by the window, and on them, canvases in violet.

On one, an earthen tunnel, a face from his list, a crumbling shield of green magic between the warlock and the giant who'd almost murdered Paris.

On the other, a pregnant woman Mac had never seen before, and in the corner of the canvas, where Paris usually signed his paintings, two words: Help her.

A full house last night and nary a one of them to be found today. Monte and Chaz were in the infirmary monitoring the several injured they'd brought to the mountain yesterday, but otherwise, Mac found no one on the main floor or in the upstairs rooms.

And no sign of Paris.

He stood in the parlor where Paris had held him last night and wondered if this was all a bad dream. But even in those the past two weeks, in every trip he took across the veil, Paris was with him, in that place he'd carved for himself at the center of Mac's world. Where Mac had sworn he'd never let anyone in again.

Especially someone on his list, which Paris had been since the night they'd rescued him. Mac hadn't told anyone, hadn't wanted to explain why he didn't take Paris's soul through the veil. He'd known Paris didn't deserve the same fate as his father, but at the time, he hadn't known why. Hadn't known how to explain his certainty to anyone else. So instead, he'd secreted Paris away in Encinal, then Calera, as far from death as possible and as far from him and the fate Mac had barely survived before. But he hadn't been able to stay away, drawn by the man and the bond between them, and now the same fate was chasing him again, closer each day he fell a little more in love with Paris Cirillo.

"Fuck!" How had he let this happen? Any of it, all of it. He knew better. He'd pushed everyone away for decades, keeping only a handful of trusted friends, a stack of cases no one else wanted, and the memory of a love that had never had a chance to bloom. But then the fool son of a mobster had grabbed hold of his soul, had proved he was anything but a fool, and now... "Fuck!" he cursed again as he plowed his hands through his hair.

"We need to find the woman in the tunnels."

Mac spun the direction of Mary's voice, finding the green-haired pixie in the doorway. "Where's Paris?"

"Where he needs to be."

Fuck her riddles.

He tore off past her and out the front door, took to wing, and scoured the grounds for any sign of Paris or the team he needed to help find him.

A flash of pale skin and red hair caught Mac's eye, and he sailed to the edge of the woods near Adam's favorite meadow. Needing his words, he shifted right into a dead sprint toward where he'd glimpsed Icarus, heedless of the noise he was making, footfalls heavy and words louder. "Adam!" he shouted. "Icarus!"

He crashed into the meadow, into what must have been an intimate moment, the two of them clutching clothes to their fronts, but then Adam took one look at him, handed his pistol to Icarus, and rushed to his side, hand on his arm. "Mac, what's wrong?"

The warmth of his hand—the kind of warmth Mac had felt when he woke, that he'd fallen asleep to in Paris's arms, that he might never feel again—brought reality crashing down, and Mac with it, falling to his knees and burying his face in his hands. "Paris is gone."

Adam kneeled beside him. "What do you mean Paris is gone?"

"Babe." Icarus tsk ed. "Give him a minute to breathe. And give me my skirt."

Mac snarled at the blue-eyed former vampire. "Your sister."

Icarus rolled his eyes as he and Adam dressed. "What about her?"

"She knows where he is, and she wants us to rescue someone else."

"Maybe Paris doesn't need rescuing."

"Mac," Adam said as he shoved his gun in the waistband of his jeans, then crouched in front of him again. "Start from the top."

"You're in love with him," Icarus said from behind his mate, and Mac's snarl escalated to a full-on growl.

"Babe," Adam said, returning the earlier tsk . "Not helping."

Icarus just shrugged, insolent as ever. "Wait until Robin hears this."

Robin—that was who they needed, on multiple fronts. The time for revenge and wild goose chases was over. "Get him back here," Mac said to Adam. "We need a tracker."

Adam didn't argue. They'd been partners on the force for years; yes, emotions were running high, but tactically, they could read each other like a book. "Call Jenn," he said, handing Icarus his phone. "Tell her to call the pack. Robin won't ignore it. Not after last time." The last time Robin had ignored the pack call, his twin sister, Adam's late wife, had been killed along with their husband. As Icarus stepped a few feet away, phone to his ear, Adam turned back to him. "What happened?"

Mac rocked back on his ass and accepted the shirt Adam handed him, spreading it over his lap. "He must have had a dream. I woke up and he was gone, but there were paintings. One was of the giant who took him, faced off with a warlock from my list in some kind of underground tunnel. The other was?—"

"Pati Miwra," Mary said, walking toward them under Icarus's arm. "She's the daughter of one of the Huimen tribe's leaders. She carries an eagle. She'll name them Pax, after her savior."

"An eagle?" Adam gasped. "I thought they were gone."

The reappearance of eagles was significant. Perhaps more so, though, was this one's name. "Pax, as in peace ?" Mac asked.

Mary nodded, and Mac propped his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. She was right; they had to rescue this woman. But fuck, where was Paris, and why couldn't he feel his soul?

Mary laid a hand on his shoulder, and a wave of warmth washed through him, holding back the threatening chill. "Kai and Jason are with him. He's going to help us find Pati. You need to believe in him."

He hung back his head and stared at the woman with all the answers, the deity who held his fate, his heart, in her hands. "Why didn't he wake me?"

"Because you wouldn't have let him do what he needs to do."

"Which is what?"

"Be Vincent Cirillo's son."