“That doesn’t make this situation better,” Jono interjected.
“I need you alive to finish this job, not dead in the street from another bomb. You arenothandling the processing of this crime scene and are getting the hell out of sight of the media,” Casale told him.
Patrick resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the cluster of news vans parked at the far end of the street, the cameras pointed their way.
“Fucking rats,” he muttered under his breath.
He really, truly hated dealing with the media.
Casale jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Ramirez and Guthrie will drive you back to the PCB or wherever you’re staying.”
“PCB,” Patrick said. “I’m not done working.”
Just because someone had tried to murder him didn’t mean Patrick had time to take a break.
Minutes later, Patrick and Jono climbed into the back of Allison and Dwayne’s unmarked police car. He slouched in the seat after buckling up, leaning his head back. He ached, right down to his bones, a gritty, low-grade pain that stemmed from the shredded pieces of his soul and partially drained magic, courtesy of the soultaker. He needed a couple of days of uninterrupted rest to heal both problems, but at this rate, Patrick doubted he’d get any.
“Where’s Marek?” Patrick asked when they were halfway to the PCB.
“Home. He’s watching the morning news about the murder and the attack. Nothing has tripped your ward,” Jono said, looking up from his phone and the text messages on the screen.
Patrick closed his eyes. “He better stay there.”
Jono kept quiet in the face of that statement. The other man couldn’t speak for Marek, and Marek seemed to do whatever the hell he liked, no matter Patrick’s warnings. If Patrick had been born a seer, he wouldn’t have any faith in an immortal to keep himself safe and always one step ahead of danger.
Allison and Dwayne didn’t try to engage either of their passengers with conversation on the drive back to the PCB. This morning’s double whammy of murder and attempted murder had put people on edge. Patrick was thankful for the quiet, if only so he couldthink. The case was racking up bodies like a bookie accrued debts, and he’d almost been added to the mix.
What am I missing?Patrick thought.
The Dominion Sect had stolen souls in sacrifices to the gods. While New York City had a nexus pooled beneath its streets and subways, it didn’t have a relic of an altar to hold the structure of the spell in place. No pyramids, no shrine, no temple, no anything from the old world and the even older religions which shored up the lives of the immortals.
Patrick couldn’t get ahead of what he didn’t know, and heneededto.
“Come on,” Jono said when Allison and Dwayne dropped them off in front of the PCB. “Let’s find you some food.”
Patrick thought about arguing, but the sound of his stomach growling ended that fight before it began. “Fine.”
Midmorning on a Saturday downtown meant the usual weekday crowds had disappeared. Jono steered him to a deli that was still open one block away that served thick sandwiches, soups, and salads. The building it resided in was one of the older ones taking up space in the Manhattan skyline.
Patrick ordered a roast beef sandwich with all the fixings, a bag of chips, and a Gatorade. Jono got double the amount Patrick ordered, and they returned to the PCB with their lunch. The sergeant on desk duty buzzed them through without comment. Patrick led Jono to the same conference room he’d worked out of yesterday.
The room was thankfully empty, and they spread their food out on the table. Jono took off his sunglasses and set them down nearby, along with his cell phone. Patrick unwrapped his sandwich and took a hearty bite, hoping the faint headache he had would go away if he fed it.
Patrick was halfway through his sandwich before he finally asked the question that had been swirling around his head for a while now. “How did you know the explosion was about to happen?”
Because Jono had grabbed him before the sound of the explosion even reached Patrick’s ears. Even now, what stood out in sharp relief in Patrick’s memories was the heat of Jono’s touch.
“I smelled it when the spell ignited,” Jono said.
Patrick knew hellfire had a distinctive smell, so it was no surprise Jono was able to react so quickly. The werevirus altered their souls and bodies, making their enhanced senses highly sought after by the US Department of the Preternatural. Patrick had worked with a handful of out werecreatures who weren’t god pack in the Preternatural Infantry during his time in the military. Teams relied on werecreatures to clear hot areas of land mines, spell traps, and embedded enemy fighters. The threats could be metaphysical or human-made, but werecreatures were adept at sniffing them out.
Patrick popped a potato chip into his mouth and crunched his way through the cheesy flavor. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for saving your arse, Pat.”
“All the same. If I didn’t have my shields up, I would’ve been dead. So the gesture is appreciated.”
Jono looked up from unwrapping his second sandwich. “I don’t know many magic users who carry their shields in their bones.”
