“Yes. We didn’t lose anyone, though I hear your agency did.”
“Hazard of the job.”
“From what I understand, this particular job almost cost you your life.”
“Well, it didn’t.”
Casale got to his feet and extended his hand. “Get some rest. I’ll keep in touch with you and your director as we close out the cases on our end.”
Patrick shook Casale’s hand firmly. “I’ll have my report done by Sunday night at the latest. Director Abuku will have to sign off on it before it goes to you for your records.”
“I’ll keep a look-out for it.”
Casale left with a final wave goodbye. Patrick picked up the remote control and unmuted the television. He shifted on the bed, trying to get comfortable. The pain in his leg was a hazy sort of ache, numbed by drugs, despite the forced healing medical professionals had put him through. He tugged the blanket aside and hiked up the hospital gown a little, poking at the bandage again.
“You probably shouldn’t touch that.”
Patrick had his dagger out and pointed at Hermes before he even registered moving. The messenger god rolled his eyes from behind the gigantic vase of white flowers he carried. He was dressed in wet, skinny black jean shorts that fell to his knees, a waterproof cycling jacket, and cycling shoes. A waterproof messenger bag was slung over one shoulder, and his black bike helmet had silver wings painted on the sides.
“Seriously?” Patrick asked. “You’re a bike messenger when you’re not annoying the fuck out of me?”
Hermes smirked at him and deposited the vase on the rolling side table, taking a moment to adjust the bunches of small white flowers. “Today I am.”
“What do you want?”
Hermes leaned his hip against the bedside railing, taking in Patrick’s less than stellar state. “What do you think? I’ve come to give you a message.”
Patrick eyed the flowers, in no mood to accept any more gifts from the gods. “Any chance I can reject it?”
“It’s customary to bring the invalid flowers. Hera thought you’d like them. They’re cliff roses. Native to Greece.” Hermes cocked his head to the side, rainwater dripping off his helmet onto the bed. “Manhattan now sports four bushes of the flowers on land at the cardinal points.”
“A simple thank-you would’ve sufficed, but your kind doesn’t know the meaning of that phrase.”
Hermes laughed. He snapped his fingers and a single gold coin spun into existence in the air. It fell onto the bed between Patrick’s knees.
“The fight isn’t over. That is your message.”
Patrick blinked. When he opened his eyes again, Hermes was gone.
“Fuck my life,” he muttered.
Patrick pressed the call button for the nurse, figuring they’d like the flowers more than he would.
He kept the coin.
21
The rain wasnothing more than a light drizzle Friday morning when Patrick finally escaped the confines of Bellevue.
Dressed in actual clothes rather than a hospital gown, Patrick ignored the disapproving frown of his doctor and signed himself out against medical advice. Nadine hustled him out of Bellevue under a look-away ward and a stealth spell, keeping them hidden from any prying eyes.
“Where are we going?” Patrick asked, zipping up his leather jacket despite the muggy weather. Nadine had reset the durability charm in his jacket, and he liked the comfort that provided right now.
“Your apartment,” Nadine said.
His fingers brushed against the hilt of his dagger as they walked, and all Patrick could think about was Jono. Part of him wanted to ask Nadine to drive to Marek’s home on the Upper East Side so he could come face-to-face with his worst mistake. The rest of him wanted to run, but that was no longer an option.
It never really had been.
