“I don’t know what the signs relate to, but the chewing and rending and the magic? At the very least, you have a demon problem.”
“Mayor will be thrilled,” Dwayne muttered.
Casale let out a heavy sigh and pointed a finger at the two detectives. “Both of you are in charge until everyone clears out. I’m going downstairs to feed the press. That should give Special Agent Collins enough time to make sure everyone here won’t need to call a priest for last rites. Collins? You’re coming with me after my presser. We’re meeting with my favorite pair of eyes.”
Dwayne glanced at Casale in surprise. “I thought your meeting with him was next week?”
“I’m moving it up.”
Patrick frowned. “Who are we visiting?”
“Someone who might be able to shed some light on this mess, if we’re lucky.”
“If you have local help outside the SOA, why haven’t you gone to them before this?”
Casale gave him a hard smile before turning his back on the group and heading for the door. “The SOA is technically the cheaper option, and the City gets pissed when we go over budget with our overtime. Make sure my people are safe, Collins. Any of them get hurt, the next thing I’m sending your agency is a complaint.”
Patrick barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Looked like the animosity between state and federal agencies was still alive and kicking.
“Right,” Patrick said, eyeing Allison and Dwayne. “Who wants me to check their soul first? I have to warn you, that spell hurts like a son of a bitch.”
In unison, the two pointed at each other, silently volunteering their partner to go first.
2
Patrick spentan hour stripping souls of hellish taint. He knew what to look for, but his magic didn’t make the process easy on the recipient. The NYPD officers were more stoic about the process than the handful of neighboring tenants on the floor.
What Patrick desperately needed—once he finished—was a cigarette to ease his nerves. He’d spent the drive from LaGuardia into Manhattan avidly hating the No Smoking sticker mocking him on the driver’s-side window. Patrick had carried more than one bad habit home with him from the front lines and hadn’t broken any of them yet. Truth be told, he hadn’t really tried. His VA-assigned therapist despaired of him ever making real progress some days.
“You’ll need to get names of everyone living in the apartment building and get them cleansed later,” Patrick warned the PCB witch on duty.
“We’ll handle it,” the officer replied. Etched onto her badge beneath her last name and badge number was a small pentacle, denoting her rank as a witch. What kind, Patrick had no idea, but she had magic, and that was all that mattered.
With nothing more he could do, Patrick left the crime scene in favor of tailing Casale through the Manhattan streets. They ended up near the Flatiron Building, though their destination wasn’t that iconic structure.
Patrick parked behind Casale’s unmarked police car in a loading zone outside an office building a few blocks south on Broadway. Its entrance was actually located on E. 21st Street, the building’s powerful protective wards glittering at the very edge of his vision. Patrick got out of his car, curious about a place that would spend a lot of money to set mage-level defensive wards on a public threshold.
Casale looked over at him as he was about to shut the car door and shook his head. “Leave your jacket behind and hide your badge.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow at that but did as he was told. He tossed his SOA jacket and sunglasses back in the car before tucking his badge underneath his T-shirt where it couldn’t be seen. He wasn’t leaving his sidearm or dagger behind.
“Let’s go,” Casale said, already halfway to the building entrance.
Patrick hurried to catch up. Crossing the warded threshold made his fingertips tingle, but the wards didn’t flare in warning to his presence. Patrick’s personal shields did what they were supposed to do and kept his tainted magic contained.
He was glad to get out of the midday heat and into the cool, air-conditioned lobby though. Casale flashed his badge at the security guards on duty up front and spoke briefly with them to gain access to the building while Patrick skimmed the directory of companies residing at the address. There weren’t many.
Casale headed for the elevator bank. When one of the security guards attempted to wave Patrick away from getting buzzed through the scan-card security gates, Casale said, “He’s with me.”
The few people coming and going into the building were on the younger side, dressed casually like Patrick in jeans and T-shirts. He wasn’t wearing any of their expensive sneakers or designer wingtips, so his black, well-worn combat boots stood out a little more than usual. A security guard directed them to the appropriate elevator, keeping back a few stragglers who looked more curious than irritated about the delay.
“Twenty-fifth floor,” Patrick said as the elevator doors closed, and it started to rise at a quick pace. “PreterWorld?”
“We’re in the old heart of Silicon Alley. The company owns the building and rents out a couple of lower levels to other companies,” Casale explained.
“Why are we here?”
“Like I said. Meeting my favorite pair of eyes.”
