He didn’t.
“Don’t leave without me, yeah?” Jono said.
Patrick nodded slowly, and Jono moved past him for the bathroom. While Jono cleaned up, Patrick mentally pulled himself together. It wasn’t enough the gods fucked with his life, they had to fuck with his mind as well.
He went back to the bedroom and retrieved his dagger, strapping it onto his right thigh before clipping his holster to his belt. The weapons went a long way toward steadying him. He hesitated before grabbing a handful of the Greek coins off the nightstand and shoving them into his pocket. Moving around reminded him that it’d been a while since he’d last had sex, but the discomfort was easily ignored.
“Ready?” Jono asked when he came out of the bathroom ten minutes later in clean clothes, sunglasses perched on his nose.
“Yeah,” Patrick said.
Even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie.
They left the apartment and got picked up by an Uber that took them to the Upper East Side, close to where Marek’s home was. The driver dropped them off in front of a seven-story mansion that had no less than twelve gargoyles crawling across its façade.
Patrick got out of the car, eyeing the gargoyle sitting over the double-door entrance to the home, munching on a pigeon. Stone wings arched over the gargoyle’s body as it gnawed off the head of its lunch. The sound of its teeth coming together reminded Patrick of the crunch of gravel beneath a tire.
“Great,” Patrick sighed. “Guard dogs.”
“Think it’s supposed to be a bat,” Jono said.
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
Someone who owned the home must have warned the gargoyles they were coming, because the stone creatures didn’t try to chase them away. Patrick rang the doorbell, making sure to stand off to the side on the porch so pigeon blood didn’t fall onto his head.
He heard footsteps beyond the door, and moments later it was opened by a woman Patrick recognized from pictures in Casale’s office.
“Uh, hello,” Patrick said, staring at Angelina Casale. “I’m here to see Isadora Cirillo?”
Angelina arched an eyebrow as she opened the door wider. “Yes, she said you would be stopping by, Special Agent Collins. Please, come inside.”
Angelina was a woman aging gracefully, her graying, light brown hair tied up to keep it off her neck in the New York summer heat. She was dressed in casual clothing and white leather loafers, and her soul’s aura carried the power of a strong witch. The only jewelry she wore other than her wedding band and diamond engagement ring was a silver necklace that had a lotus-tipped staff pendant hanging from it. Patrick stared at the symbol and felt his stomach sink somewhere down to his feet.
Well, shit, he thought.
He locked down his shields, ignoring the sharp look Jono gave him as they crossed the heavy threshold stretched across the mansion. The power within that barrier set Patrick’s teeth on edge. The uncomfortable feeling didn’t fade until Angelina offered him the ritual of hospitality.
She reached for the small china plate holding fresh-baked bread and a small glass of wine, offering both to Patrick with a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Be welcome in my lady’s home,” Angelina said.
Patrick ripped off a piece of the bread and chewed fast, swallowing it down with a mouthful of wine. The invisible pressure bearing down on his shoulders eased as he took part in the ritual. Angelina offered Jono the same greeting, and he ate the bread and drank some of the wine.
“Thank you,” Jono said politely, because his manners in some areas were better than Patrick’s, or it was the British in him.
“You sent your son to guard Marek,” Patrick said, not taking his eyes off Angelina.
“Yes, because my lady asked me to. Tyler is more than capable of handling himself in a fight, as he is an exceptionally strong sorcerer,” Angelina replied. She put the bread and wine back down on the ornate side-table and curled her fingers at them in a beckoning gesture. “Come. The high priestess awaits your presence.”
Isadora Cirillo might have been the Crescent Coven’s supposed high priestess and a missing hedge fund manager’s wife, but she was immortal to Patrick’s senses when they finally reached the rooftop terrace. And wasn’t that revelation a kick in the fucking teeth.
The muggy heat hadn’t faded despite the heavily overcast sky, a far cry from the clear skies of yesterday. The change in weather was worrisome, especially with summer solstice two days away. A reactionary storm wasn’t out of the question if things got worse. Nature reacted to powerful castings of magic by escalating natural phenomenon. Patrick only hoped a hurricane wasn’t in the mix.
Central Park stretched out before them beyond the rooftop terrace walls, as did the New York City skyline in a view Patrick wouldn’t be able to afford in three lifetimes. A round glass table beneath a wooden pergola covered in ivy was set with four place settings, two of which were already taken.
“My lady,” Angelina said as they approached. “Your guests.”
“Thank you, sister,” Isadora said. She lifted her delicate porcelain teacup to her mouth, watching their approach with fathomless brown eyes. “You may leave us.”
