It cost Patrick more.
He leaned over the front-seat divider and opened the glove compartment, pulling out the pack of cigarettes he’d stashed there yesterday. Screw the no smoking policy on the rental; he’d pay for the damn cleaning fee.
Prying a cigarette out with his teeth, he lit the end with a bit of mage fire burning from his fingertip. He stuck the key in the ignition and turned it just enough to get power so he could crack the window open and flick ash through that thin gap.
“Handle this case how you normally would,” Setsuna finally said, breaking the silence after he’d smoked down half his cigarette. “I’ll send Rachel another email about her interference.”
“Make it a phone call,” Patrick said.
“It will be handled.”
His lip curled at that, knowing full well how Setsuna handled shit like this—by sending Patrick in. Only this time, she couldn’t use him. “And my backup?”
“On their way.”
“Who’s coming?”
Setsuna hung up without answering. Patrick wondered just who she’d chosen to send as help if she wouldn’t risk saying their names out loud, even on a burner phone. None of the choices he could think of were good ones.
“I hear smoking will kill you.”
Patrick had a mageglobe in hand, burning with raw magic, before his brain recognized the bored sound of Hermes’ voice coming from the passenger seat.
“Godfuckingdamn it,” Patrick ground out, glaring at the immortal. “Do you really have to keep showing up like this?”
“Aww, Pattycakes. Did I scare you?” Hermes drawled, a nasty smirk on his mouth. “You should watch your back.”
Patrick snuffed out his mageglobe and stuck his cigarette back between his lips, drawing in a lungful of smoke. “You got anything worthwhile to tell me, or did you just show up to mock me because you’re bored?”
Hermes lifted one foot and put it on the dash, his dirty Doc Martens scuffing up the black interior. His knee poked out of the hole in his black skinny jeans, showing off a scab or two. “I have a message for you.”
“Next time, why don’t you just call?”
“So you can ignore me? Where’s the fun in that, Pattycakes?”
Patrick arched an eyebrow, as if the answer wasn’t obvious. “What do you want?”
Hermes’ hand darted out cat-quick, plucking the nearly finished cigarette out of Patrick’s mouth. He slipped it between his own lips, breathing in deep to burn it down to the filter. Smoke drifted out of his nose and from between his teeth. Hermes stubbed it out on the console between them, smearing ash around the cup holder.
“Isadora Cirillo wants to meet with you. Make time for her,” Hermes told him.
“How do you know the missing hedge fund manager’s wife?”
Hermes’ gold-brown eyes turned molten. “How do you think?”
The immortal disappeared, leaving only smoke behind. Patrick stared at the empty passenger seat, Hermes’ words ringing in his ears, the threat unmistakable.
“Fucking gods and their fucking games,” Patrick muttered, reaching for his pack of cigarettes again.
One of these days, they’d be the death of him.
7
Jono dug out his mobile,only half listening as Patrick drove off behind him. Swearing under his breath, he speed-dialed Marek while standing outside the Starbucks. The line rang a couple of times before Marek finally picked up.
“Yeah?” Marek answered, sounding worried. “Jono? Why aren’t you asleep?”
“The sodding mage left me at a Starbucks,” Jono growled.
