“Thanks,” Marek replied.
Marek drove where directed and found a spot, squeezing his car carefully between a cement pillar and an older Toyota. They got out and headed for the exit, taking the stairs down to the street. Before they even reached the PCB’s main entrance, Patrick could sense the buzz of protective wards built into its walls and foundation knock against his shields.
Shaking his head to clear it, Patrick led the way inside. The sergeant on desk duty sitting behind bulletproof and warded glass eyed their approach curiously. He wasn’t the only one.
“Sage,” Marek said, sounding relieved.
He brushed past Patrick and hurried through the lobby, making a beeline for the woman who’d stood up from one of the hard plastic chairs along the wall at their arrival. She was petite, though her high heels more than made up the difference between herself and Marek. The blue office sheath dress she wore showed off her tanned skin. Thick, straight black hair was tied back in a low, sleek ponytail, framing a face with distinct Native American features.
Patrick’s attention zeroed in on the necklace she wore as he walked closer. The turquoise pendant gave off a cool wash of magic that had a specific feel to it he only ever sensed when the fae were involved. The artifact, a portable object capable of holding magic that non-magic users could wield, was well made. Sage didn’t look like a fae, but then again, glamour could hide anything.
“I got your message,” Sage said, searching Marek’s face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I thought you were going to wait for me at home?”
Sage rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You said you were being questioned by the police. I wasn’t going to let you face that alone.”
“I told you I was okay.”
“Stupid isn’t a good look on you.”
Marek wrapped his arms around Sage and gave her a soft, welcoming kiss on the mouth. She huffed in irritation, but Patrick didn’t miss the way her hands shook ever so slightly as she pulled him closer. Marek murmured something too low for Patrick to hear before turning them around to face him and Jono.
“This is Sage Beacot, my partner. I texted her earlier about what happened tonight and where I’d be,” Marek explained without apology.
“I’m also a lawyer, specifically his,” Sage added coolly. “I’m a senior associate at Gentry & Thyme.”
Patrick’s headache throbbed a little harder at that bit of news. He hated dealing with lawyers, but he hated dealing with fae lawyers even more. Whether Seelie or Unseelie, they all gave him a migraine.
“If you’re bringing in the fae, I’m gonna have to call in someone from legal on my end,” Patrick warned.
While the fae couldn’t legally lie, they traded in half-truths and misleading language all the damn time. They were required to follow the letter—but not the spirit—of the law. Most fae outside Underhill were lawyers for a reason. Patrick wasn’t up to playing word games with one tonight.
“I’m not fae,” Sage said.
“Your artifact says otherwise.”
“Bit rude asking what everyone is,” Jono said directly behind him in a low voice that sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.
Werecreatures all had higher body temperatures than humans of any persuasion. The heat emanating from Jono’s body distracted Patrick for a second or two as he thought about how Jono would feel against him in bed. Patrick was glad his shields could hide his scent, but they couldn’t hide the way his heart skipped a beat.
“Special Agent Collins?” the sergeant asked through the speaker.
“Yeah,” Patrick said, ridiculously thankful for the interruption. He dug up the thinner wallet containing his agency ID and badge, holding it up for the sergeant to see.
“The chief is expecting you. Fifth floor. Take the first bank of elevators right past the door.”
A buzzer sounded and the door that accessed the rest of the building unlocked. Patrick eyed the way Sage stood defiantly beside Marek, expression seemingly carved from stone, and figured he had a better chance at disarming a bomb than convincing her to stay behind. He waved at them to follow him through the door.
“Come on,” he said.
They followed the sergeant’s directions and took the elevators up to the fifth floor, the doors opening onto a hallway. The open plan from Marek’s company wasn’t in practice here, and it took being escorted by a detective working late to find the conference room where Casale was waiting for them.
Casale was in a different suit than the one he’d been wearing earlier in the day. This one was a bit wrinkled, as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry. The clock hanging on the conference room wall read 2256, so that was likely the case.
“I’m thinking I should’ve appealed months ago if these are the results you get me in less than twenty-four hours,” Casale said.
“You’re entirely too happy about me fighting a demon in a bar tonight,” Patrick replied irritably.
