In the past, god packs used to have a connection to their animal-god patrons, but those were a rarity these days. The only god pack alpha Patrick knew of with a patron was a man the Fates had thrown at him without either of their consents.
Jonothon de Vere was an ex-pat Englishman, exiled from the London god pack and refused acceptance by the New York City god pack when he emigrated three years ago. The attraction between them upon first meeting two months ago had been purely physical. What Patrick felt for Jono now went deeper, though he wasn’t sure if he could trust his own emotions in that area.
At the end of the fight in June, Patrick had unwittingly bound their souls together through the magic buried in the gods-given dagger he carried. The soulbond enabled Patrick to once again tap ley lines and nexuses by virtue of his newfound ability to channel his magic through Jono’s soul. He’d spent three years since the Thirty-Day War carrying a soul wound that prevented him from accessing such an integral part of his magic. Having that ability back was life altering. That it came at the expense of Jono’s autonomy meant Patrick had yet to do anything with his returned strength.
The soulbond was illegal, despite the accidental creation of it. Messing with a person’s soul was a capital crime in the United States. Patrick couldn’t ask for help in breaking the soulbond without being arrested, so he and Jono had agreed to keep it a secret, the same way they’d kept their newly formed pack a secret from the New York City god pack.
It was a good thing Patrick knew how to keep his mouth shut.
But like any good federal agent, he was adept at speaking for the dead and getting justice for the crimes committed against them.
The skin around the teenager’s throat was mottled with bruises that lined a strip of burn scars too uniform to be anything but intentional. Werecreatures were severely allergic to silver, and aconite poisoning could be lethal. Patrick traced his gloved fingers over the burn area, measuring the space with his fingers.
It was just wide enough for the shape of a collar, which spoke of enslavement of some kind.
“He put up a fight,” Catherine said.
“Against who is the question,” Patrick said.
“Werecreatures have enhanced strength. Whatever killed him would’ve had to have been stronger.”
“A silver bullet to the heart is just as lethal as a fight for dominance. He’s got bruises, and werecreatures can heal those in seconds.”
“Then he was killed before the bruises could disappear and before he could fully shift.” Catherine pointed at the arm lying some distance from them. “His hands have defensive wounds. He didn’t die easy.”
“Nothing about his state in death suggests that. I’m going to need to know the werevirus strain he was infected with to figure out what pack he came from.”
“I can type him once we get the body to the morgue and get you that confirmation tonight.”
“Appreciate it.”
“If you want to talk to the dead, we can call in the necromancer.”
“I doubt a judge would sign off on a Resurrection Order for a murdered werecreature.”
Necromancy was illegal in most countries. Calling back a soul gone to rest in order to raise the dead was anathema in most cultures. There were exceptions. Sometimes the government allowed a necromancer to work with strict government supervision, usually at the federal level or with a Preternatural Crimes Bureau in a major metropolitan area. Getting a Resurrection Order out of the courts was damned difficult most days.
All they had was a body and no motive. Setting aside society’s inherent biases toward werecreatures, no judge would rubber stamp an order with that little evidence in hand.
Patrick lifted up some of the stiff jean fabric out of the way to get a better look at the cavity ripped into the left thigh. The femur bone was intact, but the femoral artery had damage to it reminiscent of bite marks. The only creatures Patrick knew of who liked blood as much as flesh were vampires.
“He had to have bled out somewhere else before getting dumped here,” Patrick said thoughtfully. That was a headache he really didn’t want to deal with.
Patrick’s experience with vampires and their Night Courts was unique in a way he could’ve done without. He hadn’t crossed paths with any of the Night Courts that claimed the five boroughs as their territory since transferring here. Looked like that was going to change.
In the grand scheme of things, vampires were still better than dealing with his father and twin sister. Their toxic family reunion back in June could’ve gone worse, but only if Patrick had put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.
Patrick straightened up, wincing as his bruised muscles pulled from the motion. The witch’s brew could only heal so much. “Anything else I should know about?”
“Ramirez has the evidence I pulled out of the vic’s pocket,” Catherine said. She put her notepad into its metal carrying case and tucked it under one arm as she stood. “You might want to take a look at it.”
“Allison?” Patrick called out as he stripped off his nitrile gloves and deposited them in the biohazard bin. “What was the guy carrying?”
Allison pointed at where evidence bags were laid out on the platform, hastily marked with a Sharpie pen. “Over there.”
When Patrick got close enough to see, it wasn’t what he was expecting. The first bag carried a handful of white pills, some broken and a few others whole. The intact pills each had a tiny red-black dot staining the center of each one, and Patrick frowned, poking at them through the plastic.
“Is this what I think it is?”
