“Leon wasn’t god pack. He didn’t have their eyes. Maybe he’s an employee for PreterWorld. I’ll give you that, but employees don’t normally look like they want to murder you for harming one of their coworkers. If Leon considers Marek pack, that gives them a status I’m sure the local god pack isn’t too happy about.”
“You’re not wrong,” Casale grudgingly admitted.
Patrick didn’t have a great track record with werecreatures, especially those of the god pack persuasion—mostly because he didn’t get on with their animal-god patrons.
God packs were werecreatures infected with a super strain of the werevirus, called the god strain within scientific communities. A side effect permanently altered their eye color to that of a wolf’s bright, bright blue or near-metallic amber, making it impossible to hide in plain sight like Leon could. As visible scapegoats, god packs had formed to take the punches from a society that still, to this day, hated and feared their kind. Doing so allowed people infected with the lesser strain of the werevirus to keep leading seminormal lives.
In the past, god packs had been named so for the mantle they carried in honor of their chosen animal-god patrons. These days it was rare to find a god pack that still had a connection to those immortals. But magical favor or not, their lot in life made them arrogant and difficult to work with.
Kind of like Patrick, but he liked to pretend otherwise.
“You didn’t get a chance to ask Marek about Malcolm Cirillo,” Patrick said. The missing person case was important, but he didn’t feel it took priority over the murders right now. That didn’t mean he could ignore it.
“As much as I’d like to give Isadora Cirillo an update, we aren’t getting anything else out of Marek today.”
“I can follow up with Marek at his home tonight. We need answers.”
Patrick doubted they’d get any out of Marek, but he had to cover all his bases. They had ritualistic murders going on and a missing hedge fund manager, whose case wasn’t related except for how his wife insisted it was during her initial interview with the police. Apparently, when the husband of Manhattan’s most powerful high priestess witch of an old coven went missing, people paid attention. The case reading he’d done on the flight over made it obvious Isadora thought she had clout within the City, and maybe she did.
Patrick would worry about that later.
“Marek has the money to have a healer on call to take care of the migraine his sight gave him, which means he’ll probably be at his preferred bar tonight. Emma Zhang and Leon Hernandez own Tempest here in Manhattan. Local werecreature spot, but you didn’t hear that from me,” Casale said.
Patrick wondered if Marek’s relationship with his employees was strictly work related or something deeper. “Sounds right up my alley.”
“They won’t see it that way, but if you want to risk getting bitten, be my guest. Don’t come crying to me when it happens.”
“I won’t be turning furry anytime soon. What’s the address?”
Casale rattled it off before saying, “I’d like to keep my working relationship with Marek on the up and up, so remind him we’re still willing to pay.”
Patrick waved off his request and reached for the door handle. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell him he’s owed a hundred grand. Not like the guy is hurting for money or anything.”
“Keep me in the loop,” Casale told him as he got out of the car.
“I’ll do my best.”
He was a federal agent, and this was his case now. Patrick was within his rights to keep it within his jurisdiction, but he’d found over the last three years it was easier to rely on local law enforcement for support. Patrick didn’t have a partner—his damaged magic was too distracting, according to the few people he’d worked with in the beginning before running solo—and he needed to find backup where he could.
Patrick closed the door and headed for his rental car, fingers itching to hold a cigarette. He really needed a smoke to help calm the stress he could feel starting to settle tight over his shoulders. But instead of hanging around in territory he knew he wasn’t welcome in, Patrick got behind the wheel and got back on the road.
The SOA’s New York City field office was located in a Lower Manhattan high-rise building covered in protective wards. Patrick ignored the adjacent parking garage that was just as heavily warded in favor of pulling up right in front of the entrance and turning on his hazard lights.
He had no intention of walking into the building and dealing with SAIC Rachel Andrita until he absolutely had to. Casale’s distrust of the woman was enough for Patrick to tread carefully. Patrick might work for the SOA, but he didn’t trust a lot of the agents in high positions.
Patrick pulled out his phone and called Setsuna’s executive assistant in DC. “Hey, Brianna. It’s me. Can you patch me through to whoever handles transient employee housing in New York City? I’m in the middle of a case, and I don’t have time for a meeting.”
“The boss won’t like that,” Brianna warned. He could hear her typing away on her side of the line.
“I run my cases how I like. You know that.”
“I know you do. I deal with your paperwork regarding damages the most. Transferring your call now.”
Patrick ended up talking to a woman out of Human Resources here in New York City who was reluctant to hand over the keys to an apartment without him meeting with Rachel first. Patrick may or may not have used his working relationship with Setsuna to get the woman to override Rachel’s request and deliver the keys to him in person.
“Thank you,” Patrick said as she passed the keys and a manila envelope with housing information to him through the open passenger-side window after checking his ID.
“You were supposed to meet with the SAIC first. She won’t be happy that you didn’t,” the woman warned him.
