Patrick let the ward drop once he was out of sight of the media, the mageglobe fading away. He slipped quietly through the lobby filled with numerous police officers. He pulled off his sunglasses and hooked them over the collar of his dark blue T-shirt. Blinking to adjust his sight, he took a quick look around.
While most of the uniformed officers came and went like they had places to be, a few men and women in plain clothes gravitated around a tall man in a suit giving out orders. Patrick headed in that direction, figuring he was in charge by sheer presence alone, because Bureau Chief Giovanni Casale had a voice that would do any drill sergeant proud.
“…can’t clean it up until we get it secured,” Casale was saying. “Ramirez, get somebody to watch out for that damn SOA special agent. Paula said he should be here soon.”
The dark-haired woman in a neat pantsuit with a gold shield on her belt arched an eyebrow and jerked her thumb in Patrick’s direction. “Found him, Chief.”
Casale’s attention zeroed in on Patrick, who wasn’t intimidated at all by the intensity of it. He stuck out his hand, meeting Casale’s gaze with unblinking green eyes. “Special Agent Patrick Collins. I’m with the Rapid Response Division based out of the SOA’s DC office. The director sent me your way.”
Casale shook his hand, grip firm. “Tell me you’re someone with expertise in demons and that Rachel didn’t sabotage our request for new help.”
Patrick arched an eyebrow, curious about the rancor in Casale’s voice that he didn’t bother to hide. “I’m a mage. Demons are my specialty. The SOA should’ve contacted you about that.”
Casale gave him a sharp, measuring look. “I’ve been on-site for the better part of half a day dealing with this mess. I haven’t had a chance to check my email.”
Patrick glanced up at the ceiling. “Heard you got another body.”
“Eighth this year. Third in the past goddamn month and a half. The time between murders is getting shorter; we’ve got no leads and very messy crime scenes. The SOA’s local field office wasn’t worth the headache they were giving us, so we appealed. And now you’re here.” Casale jerked his thumb at the two people standing closest to him. “Detective Specialists Allison Ramirez and Dwayne Guthrie. They’re lead on this whole mess and reporting directly to me. People, this is our latest SOA liaison.”
Tall and black, Dwayne nodded a hello but didn’t offer his hand. His partner, Allison, was about Patrick’s height and appeared younger than Dwayne, her curly, dark hair pulled back in a tight french braid. She eyed him with frank professional curiosity. “Never worked with a mage before. Our last liaison was a witch.”
Patrick shrugged. “Just feed me more often. Where’s the body?”
“Third floor. Let’s get you up there,” Casale said.
The elevator they took was on the small side, and everyone had to squeeze together to fit. Patrick noted the space the other three left around him with mild disinterest. That didn’t stop him from striking up a conversation.
“So, what’s the buy-in?” he asked.
“What buy-in?” Dwayne repeated with just enough confusion in his tone that anyone other than an SOA agent would fall for it.
“Oh, come on. We all know the NYPD hates partnering with the SOA. It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about the pool on how long the new guy will last in front of your boss. Just let the bookie know I’m good for a hundred to see this through.”
Allison shook her head. “You’re that sure of yourself?”
Patrick flashed her a smile as the elevator came to a shaky stop and the doors opened. “I can always use the extra cash.”
As soon as they stepped out of the elevator, the smile on Patrick’s face disappeared. His magic responded to the faint traces of hell in the vicinity as it always did. The discordant recognition cut against the protective wards that made up his personal shields to contain the taint of his magic. Layered in skin, locked inside his bones, his shields weren’t enough to keep his damaged magic from recognizing when something from any of the hells past the veil had leaked through. Nothing left a stain in the metaphysical energies of the world quite like that.
“I think you’re right about demons. The whole floor is contaminated with a hellish taint derived from black magic,” Patrick said, looking over his shoulder at Casale.
Casale clenched his jaw hard enough the tendons in his neck stood out before he let out an explosive sigh. “The witch we have monitoring the crime scene hasn’t notified me of a risk like that.”
Patrick started walking, dodging past a couple of uniformed cops standing guard in the hallway. “She’s not a mage. The taint is barely noticeable, but I can still sense it. Someone without my reach would probably miss it.”
“Everyone working at the PCB carries protective charms. Are those enough to keep our souls safe?”
“Depends on what I find at the crime scene.”
Patrick had a feeling he’d be stripping a lot of souls of lingering stains caused by black magic before he left. That was never fun for anyone.
Black magic was illegal for a lot of reasons, not the least being most victims of those spells ended up dead. Patrick knew that better than most. He’d survived a premeditated attack and still carried the scars—physical, mental, magical—from when he was a child and a demon nearly clawed out his heart.
Patrick’s ability to track and kill demons and monsters with ties to the preternatural world was a side effect of that childhood trauma. That little quirk in his magic had made him an asset to the Mage Corps and was the reason he had been assigned to a Special Operations Forces team. His hunting skills meant the Hellraisers’ mission success rate looked good on paper, but it did shit-all for Patrick’s personal health.
Someone had propped the apartment door open with a potted plant. Patrick stepped inside, moving past the tiny kitchen to the living room and its bloody center of attraction. He was mindful of the numbered evidence tags scattered over the floor, making sure not to knock any over. He stopped near the once pristine white couch, staring down at the victim’s remains.
Patrick wasn’t looking at a whole body, just pieces of it. The ceiling resembled a bloody Pollack painting, courtesy of the dead man’s eviscerated torso. The rib cage had been pried open like meaty butterfly wings, revealing a half-empty cavity that was missing a heart and three-quarters of the lungs. The soft skin of the abdomen was nothing but shreds, intestines spilling out of the lower part of the large, jagged hole in ropey, pinkish-gray knots.
