It was a careful, curious statement, but it still made Patrick’s shoulders tighten. He kept his gaze trained on the chips he’d poured out on the paper wrapper. He thought about giving Jono the cold shoulder, but doing so would make their time together during the case more stressful. Patrick didn’t need any more stress in his life.
Most magic users didn’t power permanent personal shields. It took too much energy, too much magic, even at a low-grade level. Patrick’s personal shields hadn’t been set by him, but by a goddess to help hide the taint in his soul from prying eyes. Since the Thirty-Day War, they’d also hidden the damage his soul had accrued in that fight.
They hidhim, in all the ways that mattered, but a part of Patrick didn’t want to hide from Jono. He blamed wanting to get laid—badly—but Patrick owed the other man, even if a soul debt wasn’t in the cards between them.
“I was Mage Corps, like you guessed in the car,” Patrick said, not blinking. “Metaphysical wounds are just as bad as the physical ones. I’d argue worse, in some ways. You can’t see damage to a person’s soul like you can to their body.”
Jono’s wolf-bright eyes never left his. “Your magic smells odd. Not bad, just odd. Suppose that’s due to a soul wound?”
Patrick shrugged, mouth dry, but he got the words out anyway. “I took a hit three years ago in a fight. It was bad. I lost the ability to tap a ley line or a nexus.”
Some of his detractors within the SOA considered Patrick a mage in name only. It didn’t matter that he had more magic in his soul than the strongest practitioner who couldn’t tap a ley line. Since he couldn’t access external magic, some people argued he should no longer carry the rank of a mage within the agency. A title didn’t make a person though, and Patrick had a lifetime of magical training under his belt only another mage would understand.
In the end, Patrick kept his rank, kept his job, even if it felt like he was missing an arm some days.
“Can you alter your shields a bit? Make it so I can smell you?” Jono asked.
“My magic isn’t the easiest to be around,” Patrick said. He knew how his magic felt to others—knew no one liked it.
Jono never looked away when he said, “It doesn’t bother me.”
Patrick paused in reaching for his sandwich again, pinned by Jono’s steady gaze. “I doubt that.”
“Your magic has a bitter scent to it, but that’s loads better than half the things I smell walking down the street at any given hour. Enhanced senses aren’t always easy to live with. I smelled the hellfire bomb, but I couldn’t smell you until you lifted your shields. In a fight, I want to know where you are.”
Patrick let out a dry bark of laughter. “Sounds like you want to watch my six.”
“If that’s what they call it these days, then yes.”
Patrick picked up his sandwich and took a bite, not trusting his immediate response to Jono’s answer. Three years ago he’d left the Mage Corps and his team behind because he couldn’t protect them the way he needed to anymore. Since joining the SOA, he’d worked alone, with no partner to watch his back. If he was honest, it got tiring. Hunting a serial killer with a werewolf would be a lot easier than trying to do it alone.
Patrick mentally shifted his personal shields, feeling magic ripple through his skin in a tingling sensation. The layers became porous enough to allow scent through and nothing else. Jono took a deep breath, the sound loud in the room, despite the bull pen beyond the closed door.
“Cheers, mate,” Jono said quietly.
“You realize I’m gone at the end of this case, right?” Patrick said.
“I don’t think the Fates will be pleased about that.”
Patrick made a face. “Yeah, well, fuck the Fates. Fuck this entire day.”
Jono laughed, the sound going straight to Patrick’s dick. Jono gave him a knowing look, and Patrick resigned himself to Jono attempting to read his emotions through scent until he got on a plane out of there.
They finished their lunch, and Patrick went to retrieve the case files containing the murders and the missing person case to review again. The Cirillo file was thinner than all the rest, but the missing person report itself was fairly detailed. Patrick’s attention kept drifting back to the photo of the couple. They weren’t familiar, but they were a problem.
Gods always were.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number on the business card in the file. It rang twice before a young-sounding woman picked up. “Isadora Cirillo’s line.”
Patrick assumed he got her assistant. “Is Mrs. Cirillo available?”
“Can I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Special Agent Patrick Collins with the Supernatural Operations Agency. I’m working with the NYPD on her husband’s missing person case.”
“One moment.”
The line went blank in the way of being put on hold. Patrick waited maybe thirty seconds before the call picked up again and a different, richer voice filtered through the speaker. Patrick tightened his grip on his phone.
