The night was muggy, but the weather was slightly cooler than it had been during the day. The Greek coin was a strangely heavy weight in his pocket. Patrick brushed his fingers over the leather sheath on his right thigh, activating the look-away ward burned into the leather with a tiny push from his magic. It twined around his body in an unobtrusive way.
No one would notice his dagger, just like no one would notice the handgun holstered at the small of his back. The spell came in handy when Patrick needed a weapon or two but didn’t want anyone to know he was carrying. He expanded his personal shields just enough to hide the feel of the active ward and nothing else right as he approached the bar.
Some werecreatures were gathered around a couple of small tables outside. Two people were vaping, the smoke smelling like caramel and strawberries when it hit Patrick’s nose. Pushing past the desire to stop and light up his own cigarette, Patrick headed for the door instead. The cacophony of sound coming from inside Tempest told him the bar would be crowded.
Patrick was immediately stopped at the entrance by two things: the bouncer checking IDs and the searching spell that ran fingers of magic up and down his body, looking for any metaphysical threat. The spell was low grade, but well maintained. Nothing Patrick couldn’t easily hide from at his level of training, but he made a mental note to keep an eye out for any other surprises.
“ID,” the bouncer demanded.
Patrick left the thin leather case with his agency ID and badge in his pocket. He pulled out his regular wallet instead and slid free his Washington, DC, driver’s license, holding it out for the bouncer to check. One casual glance at the license and an indelicate sniff of his person later, Patrick was past the guarded door with a low warning of “This isn’t a tourist trap.”
Patrick ignored the warning.
He gave his eyes a moment to adjust once inside. The long bar on his left had a crowd three people deep waiting for drinks. The space behind them was standing-room only right up until the crowd hit the few tables hugging the wall on his right. Conversation was loud, the music louder. Gaining preternatural hearing from the werevirus meant most of the bar patrons didn’t need to yell to be heard.
Despite the crowd, the place wasn’t overwhelmingly hot. Marek, or whoever owned the bar, had apparently splurged on air-conditioning, which Patrick silently appreciated. He carefully maneuvered around people to get a better look at what the bar had to offer by way of alcohol.
The place was nice in that made-to-look-old kind of way. Beer on tap was more microbrew and craft than commercial, and the wooden shelves that went up to the ceiling behind the bar were filled with bottles of brand-name liquor to better serve up the cocktails Tempest was also known for. A metal rod was bolted to the wall in between two of the higher shelves and ran the length of the workspace. Patrick could see a skinny metal sliding ladder pushed out of the way for the moment at the very end of the workspace.
Recessed lights in the ceiling and the bare bulbs mounted on the walls were surrounded by thin iron cages. The light burned with a dim, almost amber hue. The crowd fluctuated more at the rear of the space than anywhere else. It took Patrick a moment to see part of the reason was due to the line down a short hallway for the restrooms and a set of stairs that led to a basement housing the bar’s event room.
It took nearly ten minutes for Patrick to finally reach the bar itself after waiting while others received their drinks. Two of the three bartenders were women and busy with other orders. The third was a man Patrick couldn’t bring himself to look away from, desire uncoiling in his gut with a sudden spike of heat.
Fuck me, he thought only a little desperately.Please.
For once, not being in Maui wasn’t a bad thing.
The man was taller than Patrick by a good few inches, with broad shoulders that filled out his black, short-sleeve button-down shirt nicely. The almost too-tight shirt accentuated his solid physique, and Patrick honestly wouldn’t mind seeing the muscles hidden under his clothes. The guy looked like he knew how to manhandle a person in the best way, and Patrick’s cock twitched in his jeans at that thought.
Patrick’s gaze did a slow up and down of what he could see before coming back to rest on the man’s handsome face, with its strong jawline, sharp cheekbones shadowed by the hint of a beard coming in, straight nose, and expressive mouth. Casually messy black hair was trimmed shorter on the sides and faded into a slightly longer length up top, falling across his forehead in soft waves. He wasn’t the only person sporting that hairstyle in the bar, but he wore it the best.
The man’s hair still wasn’t long enough to hide his eyes. Even in the low light, Patrick could see they were a wolf-bright, intense blue that almost seemed to glow. He stared at Patrick with an unblinking intensity that would make most mundane humans duck their head and werecreatures want to bare their throat. Patrick held the man’s gaze defiantly, refusing to look away.
Werewolves—god pack or otherwise—had never frightened him. In Patrick’s experience, plain old flesh-and-blood humans were worse.
The man’s nostrils flared a little as he scented the air, probably taking in the burst of Patrick’s sudden arousal. Patrick had a fleeting thought to lock down his shields a little more to hide his scent completely, but decided not to. He’d left his scent unencumbered, because walking into a bar catering to werecreatures smelling like nothing was a good way to get tagged as a problem.
The man’s biceps flexed in a distracting way when he leaned his weight against the counter, the preternatural strength in his body unmistakable. His hands were long-fingered where they rested against his work area, tapping out a rhythm against metal. The coiled strength in his body, paired with those eyes of his, would make it difficult for most people to miss he wasn’t completely human.
“What can I get you?” he asked, his London accent easy to pick out through the chatter around them.
Definitely European god pack, but what he was doing here in New York City, Patrick didn’t know. The bartender flashed him a polite smile, gaze falling to Patrick’s mouth for a split second in a tell Patrick had long ago learned to read.
Patrick licked his full bottom lip, watching those bright eyes flick downward again. “If I said you?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that,” he drawled around a smirk. “But I’m on the clock.”
It was a fucking shame Patrick was working a case right now. “Johnnie Walker Blue. Neat.”
One dark brow arched upward. “Coming right up.”
Since no crafting was involved in Patrick’s drink, just a straight pour into an empty glass, it took him less than a minute to receive it. The bartender set the glass of whiskey on the bar, sliding it over.
“Forty dollars,” he said. “You want to open a tab?”
Patrick dug out his wallet and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, handing it over. “No, but keep the change.”
He took the money and gave Patrick a contemplative look. “Cheers, mate. Name’s Jono. Come back to me when you want another round, yeah?”
