“Is that really necessary? This case is being handled through DC by way of me. It’s no longer her problem,” he said.
“If you want a roof over your head instead of sleeping in your rental car, then yes, it’s necessary.”
Patrick scoffed at that. “You forget my bed consisted of a cot, a hard bunk, or the ground for years. Come up with a better threat.”
“Take the meeting, Patrick. That wasn’t a request. And try not to make this situation with the NYPD worse than it already is.”
“You know I hate dog and pony shows, Setsuna. If you wanted ass kissing, you should’ve sent someone else.”
“You were the only one I could send.”
Patrick paused in opening up the trunk of the car, fingers tightening on his cell phone. “Was I?”
Setsuna’s silence reminded him too much of a childhood where answers were never forthcoming. Patrick angrily shook his head and yanked the trunk open. A blast of hot air rose up from the space, making him wince at the heat. He unzipped his messenger bag, pulling out the travel lockbox that contained his semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol.
“Are we done?” he wanted to know.
“We’re done.”
Patrick hung up without saying goodbye and tucked his phone into the back pocket of his black jeans. He was never going to win employee of the month at this rate.
Patrick entered the code to unlock the box and flipped open the lid, revealing the handgun inside. He pried it out of the foam interior and slid the magazine home, keeping his hands out of sight of anyone passing by. Not that there were many at the moment. Everyone seemed more interested in the police presence farther down the street.
He attached the holster to his belt and slid the handgun home, the weight of it familiar. Patrick let his right arm drop down to his side, fingers brushing over the warded leather sheath strapped to his thigh. The double-edged, ten-inch dagger was an artifact he’d been gifted with three years ago during the Thirty-Day War in the Middle East. He never went anywhere without it these days, but if he could give it up, he would.
“Fucking hell,” he said, letting out a heavy sigh.
Orders from his superiors could be annoying, but those of the godly persuasion were usually worse.
Patrick grabbed his secondary gold SOA badge attached to a black leather backing from his messenger bag and hung it around his neck. It tangled with the dog tags he still wore, the metal chains warm against his skin. Shrugging on the black nylon jacket with its gold agency lettering on the back, Patrick closed the trunk and headed up the street for the crime scene.
Curious onlookers had gathered near the apartment building in question. Patrick squinted through his aviator sunglasses at the crowd and the news van situated front and center right outside the police line.
The NYPD’s Preternatural Crimes Bureau held jurisdiction over the murders that had drawn Patrick to New York City. When he’d called the PCB upon landing at LaGuardia, the assistant to Giovanni Casale, the PCB’s Chief of Preternatural Crimes, had requested he keep out of sight of the media. They weren’t ready to announce the feds were taking over the case. With the cameras camped outside the cordoned-off area, Patrick only had one real option to stay out of sight.
“Time to get to work,” he muttered.
Patrick spun his index finger in a lazy circle while he walked, reaching for that presence deep inside his soul he’d always been aware of, even as a young child.
Magic.
Roughly a quarter of the world’s population could manipulate their soul’s energy into magic. Children were tested young, with magic running through a range of types and affiliations, from various kinds of elemental magic to the more sinister calling of necromancy. Magic was only as strong as a person’s soul, and a soul still needed to keep a body alive. Evading magical burnout was impossible some days, but the risk for mages was lower compared to other magic users.
Mages were the only ones on record who could open up their souls to the rivers and lakes of metaphysical energy running through the earth in the form of ley lines and nexuses. That external, wild magic acted as a booster, giving them a reach most magic users could never attain on the basis of their soul alone. Mages were highly sought after by governments and militaries alike the world over for their ability to tap into that magic, though in some countries they were little more than slaves.
Patrick hadn’t been conscripted into joining the US Department of the Preternatural, but the pressure he’d felt at seventeen to sign those recruitment forms with Setsuna’s permission had felt a lot like he didn’t have a choice.
Maybe if he hadn’t been orphaned at the age of eight, things would be different. Maybe if he hadn’t been magically crippled during the Thirty-Day War—that clusterfuck the Dominion Sect almost won on behalf of all the hells three years ago—he wouldn’t be so fucking bitter. Patrick knew better than to deal inwhat-ifscenarios, but it didn’t stop him from occasionally diving down that rabbit hole.
Patrick flexed his fingers, feeling a knuckle pop as he shook out his hand.
“Focus,” he told himself.
Magic, willed out from his tainted soul, spun itself into a pale, glowing blue sphere no bigger than a golf ball. It nestled against the curve of his hand, mostly hidden from sight. The mageglobe acted as an anchor point for whatever spell or ward Patrick needed to call up. The color used to be brighter, but the once vibrant shade had faded to a washed-out hue. The mageglobe’s dullness was a visual clue to the internal damage he’d suffered at the end of that month of literal hell on earth.
Patrick might have lost the reach and strength necessary to tap into a ley line and cast high-level spells and wards, but he could cast a look-away ward in his sleep. The mageglobe pulsed softly with magic, the spell within its pattern creeping into his aura, that extension of a human soul.
He pushed his magic outward, the invisible force spreading through nearby auras in the crowd with no one the wiser. The look-away ward didn’t make him invisible; it simply kept people’s attention from wandering his way until after he ducked under the yellow Do Not Cross police tape and entered the apartment building unhindered.
