1
Special Agent Patrick Collinswinced as he clattered down the stairs of the Brooklyn Bridge-City Hall/Chambers Street subway entrance, the motion jarring his still-healing nose. The medical tape slapped over the bridge of it itched his skin, but he refrained from scratching at the annoyance.
The passage down into the subway was packed with people from a delayed rush hour commute on a Wednesday night. Despite the crowd, everyone got out of his way when Patrick said, “Federal agent, coming through.”
Patrick’s Supernatural Operations Agency badge hung from his neck, and his semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol was holstered on his right hip. The gods-made dagger he never went anywhere without was securely strapped to his right thigh. Patrick had opted to leave his jacket with the agency lettering across the back in his car. August in New York City was too fucking hot to wear anything but short sleeves.
Patrick had been upstate dealing with an incursion of Redcaps for the past week. He’d been looking forward to going home once he landed at LaGuardia. One call from Special Agent in Charge Henry Ng before he even deplaned and he’d been assigned an emergency case with the NYPD’s Preternatural Crimes Bureau. It was a familiar song and dance he was too tired to perform but didn’t have a choice.
He raked a hand through his dark red hair as he made it to the fare gates and kept moving past the officer on guard duty. No one tried to stop him.
At least this case is local.
Since June, Patrick had called New York City home. The transfer from the national office to a field office had taken some getting used to. The majority of the cases he handled now came out of New York state, though he still got sent out on national ones if the need was great enough. Media focus aside, Patrick was enjoying how less chaotic his job was lately.
Nothing about a dead body ruining a rush hour subway commute was enjoyable though.
Detective Specialist Dwayne Guthrie waved Patrick over once he made it to the subway platform. “About damn time, Collins.”
“Would’ve been here sooner, but traffic was terrible,” Patrick said.
“Maybe you should look into getting some lights and sirens put into your car. Or convince the mayor he needs a better outreach program for troubled youth so shit like this doesn’t happen and we all get a night off for once. The dumbasses who sneak into the tunnels to tag turf keep getting eaten and it’s annoying.”
Patrick jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There were signs up by the gates. No feeding the trolls.”
Dwayne rolled his eyes. “Do you think any of the fools selling shit on the corner actually read? And what happened to your face?”
Patrick made an aborted motion to touch his face, his healing nose and bruised green eyes throbbing a little. “Went face-first into a tree. I took a potion before I got on the plane. I’ll be fine.”
A witch’s brew was better than painkillers some days. The accelerated healing it could produce meant the swelling had gone down enough that Patrick could see out of both eyes, and the cartilage in his nose would mend straight in a couple of days rather than weeks. His head was still sore, not to mention the rest of his body, but ignoring the discomfort was second nature at this point.
Patrick gazed around the crowded center platform of the station. Several uniformed police officers were keeping the area near them clear, but no trains were running on their side of the platform. Patrick tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, feeling sweat trickle down his spine. Summer in the city was a swamp-like hell of high heat and high humidity, especially down in the subway.
“Where’s the body?” Patrick asked.
“In the Old City Hall subway station,” Dwayne replied.
“You’ve confirmed it’s not a suicide?”
Dwayne nodded as he headed toward the end of the platform where a set of gated stairs were located, guarded by an officer. “You’ll see why. A train operator spotted the body when his train looped around. Victim wasn’t found on the tracks, but the MTA is holding the 6 line until we’re done processing the area for evidence. We’ve been waiting on you.”
“Bet the commuters aren’t happy about that.”
“Not my problem.”
Patrick followed Dwayne off the platform and onto the subway tracks. The tunnel itself was dark, so Patrick called up a couple of witchlights to guide their way. Pale blue sparks erupted from his fingertips as he pushed magic out of his damaged soul, the illumination bouncing ahead of them. Casting the spell was harder than usual, but he chalked that up to the location.
Patrick grimaced at the feel of the wards that lined the tunnel walls. Subways were built through swaths of the veil, which meant their construction had been done by both mundane and magical means. The magic protecting the subway system was old, extensive, and powerful, with the anchor points of the wards radiating out from Grand Central Terminal. The wards made casting magic difficult, but an innocuous spell to conjure light was doable.
Minutes later, Patrick’s witchlights merged with the brightness put out by portable floodlights, and he let his magic fade away. He and Dwayne came out of the dark tunnel into a station that made it feel as if they were stepping back in time. The vaulted ceiling with its leaded glass skylights and chandeliers were part of a bygone era that seemed out of place in today’s modern world.
The body on the platform ruined the retro atmosphere.
Patrick lowered his personal shields, trying to get a read on the area, but his magic recognized no discernable threat. Members of the PCB’s Crime Scene Unit were diligently working on collecting evidence while PCB officers kept watch. Patrick spotted Dwayne’s partner, Detective Specialist Allison Ramirez, almost immediately. She waved them over, frowning at Patrick once they got closer.
“I know the chief requested federal help for this, but I didn’t think we’d get to work with you again so soon,” Allison said. “You look like you went a couple of rounds in the boxing ring and lost.”
Patrick shrugged. “Actually, I won. What do we got?”
