“What happened tonight, Collins?”
“I went to the bar to ask Marek about what he saw this afternoon. Didn’t take very long for the soultaker to show up.”
“How?”
“The demon wore glamour. Only a mage could cast that spell strong enough to completely hide a demon’s presence from a bar full of werecreatures.”
“So an active cell of the Dominion Sect is a strong possibility.”
Considering Patrick’s past history with soultakers and the people who favored using them the most, he thought it was less a strong possibility and more an actuality. “Probably our only one.”
Casale nodded, seeming unsurprised at that assessment as he stared at Patrick. “You handled the one tonight. I’ve heard not even tanks could dent them during the Thirty-Day War.”
“Aerial strikes or spelled tank shells worked best. Those with ties to the preternatural world, like werecreatures, had better luck getting in close and killing the demons than mundane humans did, but it was still risky,” Patrick replied.
If Casale’s wife was a priestess in a prominent coven, notwithstanding his own rank, it was unsurprising Casale knew a bit more than the average person about the demons who’d been the backbone of the Dominion Sect’s fighters in the Middle East.
“Then how did you kill it tonight?”
Patrick rubbed at his mouth before shrugging. “That’s classified.”
“Really?” Casale asked flatly.
Patrick blinked, his mind swelling with disjointed memories of the Thirty-Day War that had broken him in ways that could never be fixed. It had started with a torn veil in the Giza Plateau, spread through the cradle of civilization, before ending in Cairo. The public still didn’t know everything that had happened during that time, despite the numerous war correspondents embedded with the military and civilian videos uploaded onto the internet during the fighting.
The truth, buried beneath a mountain of bureaucratic red tape and classified Top Secret, Eyes Only across a dozen countries, was worse. Patrick knew it only because he’d lived through it.
Hidden beneath the chaos of hell reigning on Earth for almost a month was the attempt by a Dominion Sect mage to capture a god. Bolstered by the strength of the nexus beneath Cairo that now no longer existed, the mage had almost succeeded in stealing a godhead.
It wasn’t the first time they’d tried it.
In the end, it took the sacrifice of a different god to put an end to that madness when Patrick couldn’t finish the job. The official report of how the Thirty-Day War ended didn’t include his name, and Patrick was fine with that. He didn’t want to go down in history as the guy who fucked up even as the world declared victory. If he’d done what he was supposed to do back then, if he’d done what the immortals who sided with heaven had ordered him to do, he wouldn’t be in this situation now, watching history repeat itself.
Patrick took a deep, silent breath and tried to steady his thoughts. Hindsight was always so fucking perfect and so fuckinguseless.
“I was trained at the Citadel and spent nine years with the US Department of the Preternatural in the Mage Corps before leaving for the SOA. So, yeah, Casale. The missions I’ve been assigned and the cases I’ve worked are classified at a level you can’t reach. I’ve seen things and done things your average witch will never have experienced,” Patrick said.
“Regardless of the appeal I sent through, I don’t trust the SOA,” Casale told him. “Your last few directors have been self-serving, and the one before all of them was a traitor. Tell me why I should trustyou?”
“Because I’m all you’ve got,” Patrick said simply, meeting Casale’s gaze and not looking away. “So give me a week, Casale. One week to see if I can’t stop whatever is happening around these murders. I’ll keep you in the loop and work with you.”
The silence weighed heavily between them for a long minute before Casale finally relented.
“One week,” Casale agreed in a low voice. “And I want your word as binding that you’ll keep the PCB updated. I don’t care that the case is now under federal jurisdiction. This is my City, and it’s my job to help keep it safe.”
Promises, contracts, oaths, agreements—they were all binding in ways even the gods respected. Whether written down or spoken out loud, tying a person’s soul to their words bound them to a commitment they could not escape.
Patrick should know.
He’dtried.
“One week,” Patrick echoed. “Thanks for your understanding.”
“Christ, don’t thank me for this. Get out of my office. We’re done for tonight.”
“I’ll send you my report later for your files.”
Casale waved a hand in irritation. “Do what you have to do. Just make sure the City is still standing at the end.”
