No one mentioned the mess of his soul, Setsuna’s forgetting spell keeping his secret.
Nadine left not long after the doctor, off to deal with whatever needed to be handled right now. Patrick grabbed the remote off the side table, turned on the television, and switched it to a news channel. He needed to get caught up on things.
It turned out when you broke up a high-level sacrificial spellwork by way of magical overload, it really did a number on the grass.
The North Meadow in Central Park was nothing but mud surrounding craters made from grenades and offensive spells. The baseball fields were absolutely ruined for the rest of summer, and the park itself had been closed off to the public for the next week at the very least. A dozen talking heads across half that many channels were busy discussing what had happened and getting a lot of facts wrong as they did so.
The spin is going to be ugly, Patrick thought to himself a couple of hours later.
“You shouldn’t be watching that. It’ll just piss you off.”
Patrick jerked his head around as Casale stepped into his hospital room. He cleared his throat, muting the television. “Needed to get information somehow. What are you doing here?”
Casale eyed him critically as he came closer. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Did you come by before now?”
“I did, but you were still unconscious. Got a call from your director that you were awake.”
“I don’t have my report ready.”
“While I’d be happy if you did, I’m not here for that.” Casale pulled a flat white envelope out of his inner suit pocket and handed it to Patrick. “This is for you.”
Patrick took it and slid his thumb under the flap to open it. He stared in confusion down at the small stack of money stuffed inside. “Is this a bribe? Are you bribing me? Wait a minute. Shouldn’t I be the one bribing you to keep the press at bay?”
Casale let out a dry chuckle. “It’s not a bribe. Ramirez and Guthrie wanted me to give that to you. Apparently you won the pot I know nothing about. Figured you’d earned it.”
It took a moment before Patrick remembered what Casale was talking about. He didn’t bother to hide his grin. “I won the pot.”
“Of which I know nothing about,” Casale stressed.
Patrick stuffed the envelope under the blanket and waved at the only chair in the room. “Take a seat. I can’t promise I’ll be great company right now, but it’s not like I’m going anywhere today.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“Oh, you’re good. But no, it’s still today, so I’m stuck eating hospital food for one more night.”
Maybe he could bribe the nurses to order him a pizza. With cash on hand, that was a possibility now.
“You sure leaving medical care so soon is a good idea?”
“I’ll be fine, Casale. I’ve had worse and kept working.”
“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement of your decision-making skills when it comes to your health.”
Casale sat back in the chair a little. His suit was slightly wrinkled in places and damp at the shoulders. Patrick glanced out the window that faced the street, seeing rain still coming down, but nowhere near as violently as it had during summer solstice. Right now it was more of a lazy shower.
“Our weather witches on staff say the reactionary storm will disappear by tomorrow night,” Casale said.
“That’s good.” Patrick was absolutely terrible with weather magic. He didn’t have an affinity for it at all. He figured out what the weather would be like on a day-to-day basis by checking an app on his phone rather than communing with nature. “Means I can take a smoke break outside when it finally stops.”
Casale’s mouth twitched a little. “I should warn you the media has camped outside the hospital. Might want to wait on that smoke break.”
Patrick scowled. “Fucking media. The press are like cockroaches.”
“Worse, on occasion.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll get Nadine to cast a look-away ward when we make our great escape.” He scratched at where the medical tape had been adhered to on his arm. No matter what brand was used, it always made his skin itch. “Are all your people accounted for?”
