“What kind?”
“A barrier ward.”
“That won’t be enough to contain the damage you’re describing in the subway, especially if the wards are damaged further. If you used a barrier ward for containment, you’d need to feed it power on a consistent basis. You aren’t capable of doing that.”
He said it kindly, but it still stung. Patrick was used to other magic users pointing out his shortcomings. Ignoring the comment was the only thing he could do in a situation like this.
“I can find a workaround. I always have.”
“If you were any other agent, I’d tell you no, that I’d want you to find another way. But the director was very clear about letting you run your cases as you saw fit, and I’m not one to disobey her on an issue like this. Not after June. I’ll sign off on your request for an artifact, but I’ll be keeping some agents on call for backup.”
That was the best Patrick could hope for, especially since he was keeping some details back. Lying to his supervisor wasn’t the best option, but so long as he made sure the SOA’s legal department still had a case to stand on, then his actions were acceptable.
That’s what he told himself to sleep at night.
Not that it did any good.
Patrick took his signed-off authorization down to the twentieth floor where the SOA’s artifacts were stored within heavily warded walls. Artifacts were portable objects that retained magic even nonmagic users could wield. The SOA regulated theirs within strict parameters. Precautions taken at field offices paled in comparison to those at the Repository, a storage facility housed in a highly classified remote detachment of Edwards Air Force Base. The public knew it as Area 51; Patrick knew it as a headache.
The Department of the Preternatural, the Supernatural Operations Agency, and the Preternatural Intelligence Agency all had equal control over the Repository. The magical and supernatural relics and weapons it contained were all drawn from one myth or another, either new or old. What hadn’t changed was their dangerous, destructive capabilities.
Every country had an equivalent of the United States’ Repository within their borders. The buildup of magical weapons and artifacts had grown out of the two World Wars and peaked during the Cold War. That hadn’t been enough to deter governments from hoarding items capable of mass destruction in some form or another.
Barrier wards were a powerful defensive tool that Patrick had seen deployed in a war zone many times, as well as on home soil. They contained the strongest shields any mage was capable of casting. Patrick had stood behind barrier wards that Nadine had cast and never felt safer. He only hoped they would be strong enough for what he had in mind.
Patrick passed over the authorization and his badge to the agent on duty. While the agent uploaded the authorization and started the retrieval process, Patrick made a phone call.
“Didn’t think you would lose the fight with the DEA,” Casale said when he picked up.
“The situation changed. DEA Special Agent Delgado,” Patrick remembered at the last second to use Quetzalcoatl’s alias, “made a compelling argument. I’ll be at the PCB within an hour. I need to discuss an update with you.”
“We’re still sorting out the mess from the other night’s run through the streets. Convenient that all of the CCTV cameras or security cameras outside local businesses for the entire route of that chase were burned out.”
At least Hermes is good for something, Patrick thought. “Magic does that sometimes. You got eyewitness accounts though.”
“Which any good defense attorney will pick apart. We’ll talk about it later, Collins.”
Casale ended the call and Patrick put his phone away. A few minutes later, he was in receipt of a piece of quartz crystal the length of his palm. The magic resonating from the crystal had the feel of a high-level ward. Patrick breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he wrapped his fingers around the quartz and pocketed it.
Patrick left and took the elevators down to the ground floor. He passed through the security gates and crossed the lobby, heading outside. As he pushed open the glass door and stepped onto the sidewalk, Patrick stumbled over something heavy that got underfoot. Grabbing at the door for support, he looked down at the ground.
And froze.
The black Santa Muerte idol was maybe the length from his wrist to elbow, the scythe and globe painted gold. A chill ran through him as he stared at it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
Three years since he’d last worn a Mage Corps uniform hadn’t dulled his instincts. For all that he lived and worked in the civilian world, Patrick’s resting state was war, and always would be.
Patrick shoved the glass door closed behind him and wrenched his personal shields out of his bones. He layered them for strength as the ear-piercing sound of gunfire ripped through the air with the searing intensity of the front lines.
“Get down!” Patrick yelled as he conjured up two mageglobes and sent his magic ripping down the sidewalk.
The federal building was surrounded by wards, and the protections would keep everyone inside its walls safe. The wards wouldn’t do anything for those on the outside. Midmorning on a busy Manhattan street meant there were a lot of innocent bystanders ready to take a stray bullet or spell straight to the heart.
One mageglobe tore apart the look-away ward hiding the threat in plain sight. The other raised a secondary shield Patrick shored up with every ounce of concentration and power available to him as he sprinted for what cover he could find. The short cement pillars evenly spaced out on the sidewalk in front of the building had been placed there to stop a vehicular attack on the SOA. Right now, they gave Patrick something to hide behind.
He threw himself at the nearest pillar, grunting from the impact. He got a glimpse of four motorcycles speeding down the street, each carrying a driver and passenger dressed all in black and wearing opaque helmets.
The passengers carried fully automatic rifles with bump stocks that never let up in the assault on his location. Patrick’s personal shields remained intact, but the one he’d cast to cover the street buckled against the volley of bullets.
