Jono adjusted his grip, glad to get away from the silver collar pressing against his chest. He guided the teenager down to the platform and crouched down next to him. The burn the collar had left behind on Jono’s skin was tender and hot, stretching in an uncomfortable way as he steadied the teenager. Patrick grimaced at the sight of it before shrugging out of his leather jacket and handing it to Jono.
“Here. Your extra set of clothes are back at the car, but this is the best cover I can give you right now,” Patrick said.
“Should give it to—” Jono cut himself off, remembering at the last second not to use Sage’s name in public. He turned his head and stared down the platform at where Sage crouched, wrapped in one of Patrick’s shields to keep her safe from the police who were bound to show up soon.
“The weretiger isn’t changing until we’re somewhere private,” Patrick said, going for gender-neutral terms to preserve Sage’s identity. “Keep his head still. I’m taking off the collar.”
Jono moved to kneel behind the teenager, reaching around to grip his chin in one hand and hold his skull with the other. Patrick knelt beside them, dagger in hand as he tried to get the teenager to look at him.
“Hey,” he said gently. “I’m Special Agent Patrick Collins with the SOA. I’m here to help, okay? So is Jono. He’s kind of like my criminal informant, only not.”
Jono snorted. “Is that what I am now? What happened to your actual CI?”
“They left the club.”
“Tremaine still alive?”
“For now.”
Jono had more questions he wanted to ask, but the warning look Patrick shot him told him now wasn’t the time. Jono focused on keeping the teenager still as Patrick pressed the point of the dagger against the silver collar.
No latch was visible, but the seam where it had been welded shut around the teen’s neck sat over his spine. Patrick ignored that area, instead cutting through a particular ward that reacted with a crackle of red energy that died beneath the magic the dagger wielded.
The silver didn’t melt. Instead, it broke apart beneath the steady pressure of the dagger as it easily cut through the metal. The white glow of magic burned along the matte-black blade in response to the containment and binding spells in the collar. With a crackling hiss, the collar separated beneath the cut, and Jono was surprised to see no burn scars on the teen’s flesh as Patrick worked the collar off with steady hands. Once it was completely removed, Jono took a breath, expecting the scent of a werecreature.
What he got was a lungful of air filled with hints of smoke.
Patrick blinked rapidly for a couple of seconds at the teen before abruptly turning his head to the side. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he were suddenly blinded.
“Fuckinghell,” Patrick said.
“What?” Jono asked, body going tense, adrenaline pumping through his veins.
“Kid’s not a werecreature. He’s a gods be damneddragon.”
And wasn’tthata kick in the fucking teeth?
8
“I havethe president of the MTA blowing up my line, a dozen wounded people being treated at hospitals, numerous vehicles ruined by werecreatures, the Manhattan Night Court demanding I arrest you for trespassing, and the press camped outside waiting for a statement. What thehellam I supposed to tell them?” Casale demanded.
Patrick never looked away from where Wade Espinoza sat in Interview Room 1, staring right back at them through the two-way glass window as if he could see them when he shouldn’t be able to. He was a little difficult for Patrick to make out clearly because his aura was goddamnblinding.
“He can hear you,” Patrick said.
“Then ward the fucking room, Collins.”
Patrick didn’t think he’d appreciate being told that wouldn’t work this time around.
Casale’s anger was impossible for anyone to miss. The bull pen beyond the small observation room they were in had been tense ever since Casale stormed through it twenty minutes ago. The mess in the subway had taken hours to clean up, not to mention the time Patrick had spent at the hospital for Wade to get treated. Bringing him back here to the PCB hadn’t been his first choice, but protocol dictated it for the case.
Patrick scratched at the side of his neck, careful not to drop the file with Wade’s limited juvenile arrest records and family records tucked under his arm. “He thinks he’s a werecreature.”
Casale glared at Patrick, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “Are you going to stand there and tell me he isn’t?”
In response, Patrick passed the file over to Casale, still staring at where Wade sat in the interview room. The teenager was nervously chewing on a thumbnail, wearing a pair of hospital scrubs and slippers. He’d been treated at New York-Presbyterian, Lower Manhattan for his ailments which had amounted to being underweight, underfed, dehydrated, and exhausted. Wade had been adamant he was a werecreature, but a standard blood-typing test hadn’t produced any signs of the werevirus.
Dragons didn’t exist because of an infection.
