Every single bullet cutting his way was spelled; Patrick could feel the foreign magic of a god chip away at his own with every impact. Each bullet felt like they’d been dipped in literal fire as they slammed into and, in some cases,throughhis shield, only to get stopped by the SOA’s protective wards.
Say what you would about federal spending, but the money sunk into those wards were worth the cost.
Defensive magic wasn’t his strong point, but Patrick still poured his magic out of his soul to patch up the tears in the only protection available. He hadn’t been quick enough to cast a wider shield in the initial volley—people lay on the sidewalk, a few unmoving and more screaming or moaning from gunshot wounds. Cars in the street were braking and swerving as drivers reacted in a frenzied manner. The sound of metal screeching together told Patrick at least one accident had happened, but he couldn’t think about that right now.
Patrick conjured up another mageglobe, filled it with raw magic, and sent it after the motorcycles. Normally he wouldn’t lob what was effectively a grenade made up of metaphysical energy into the middle of a civilian street, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
The mageglobe exploded between the third and last motorcycles on their drive-by shooting spree. The fourth motorcycle’s front wheel hit the pothole that appeared in the wake of the explosion, sending the riders flying into the air as the motorcycle flipped over and crashed. The driver hit the ground headfirst, neck snapping from the force of the landing. The body rolled a couple of times before coming to a stop in the middle of the street as cars swerved to avoid him.
The shooter landed on top of a parked car, shattering its back window. She slid halfway into the vehicle, twitching from the impact—hopefully alive enough to talk because Patrick needed answers.
The three other motorcycles sped away, disappearing with the skill of people who had done this before. They left behind hundreds of bullets and casings scattered across the street and sidewalk, wounded civilians, and a Santa Muerte idol that stood untouched by the building’s entrance.
The idol seemed to watch Patrick, plastic skull beneath a draped hood filled with a presence he couldn’t look away from. Recognition scraped through his magic, the taste on his tongue like ashes. It left him cold, fingertips numb, as the wind picked up in a gust that rose to gale force speeds.
You should have worshipped me, the wind seemed to scream.
“Fuck you!” Patrick shouted back.
He pressed his back against the cement pillar and sank his personal shields into the sidewalk, digging in as the wind battered the street. The protective wards on the building flared up ice-white, rising upward as the magic in their making reacted to the threat. High above, pigeons took to the air, cooing frantically. A gargoyle on a nearby building reached out and grabbed a couple of birds out of the sky for its lunch.
As quickly as it arrived, the wind disappeared, dirt and paper and bits of feathers drifting down from above in the sudden stillness. Heart pounding in his chest, Patrick stared at the Santa Muerte idol, the feel of a god gone from the street, even if the taste hadn’t left his mouth. He swallowed against it, reminded of the chemical saturation of his taste buds when he’d taken shine. It made him sick to his stomach.
Patrick retracted his shields and got to his feet, casing the area. For all that the threat might have vanished, he didn’t trust the absence left behind. Patrick conjured up a mageglobe and sent it toward the Santa Muerte idol. He wrapped his magic around the damned thing right as the doors to the SOA building burst open now that the protective wards had gone dormant. He could see through the disappearing brightness numerous agents filling the lobby. Leading the charge outside was Henry, a pissed-off expression on his face.
“What the hell just happened?” Henry demanded as agents scattered to help the wounded and secure the one shooter who was still alive.
Patrick straightened up with the Santa Muerte idol floating between his hands in a mageglobe. “Someone took offense to my lack of tithes at the altar.”
“What isthat?”
Patrick didn’t recognize the woman who came to stand by Henry’s side. To be fair, he didn’t recognize or know many of the agents who worked out of the field office. But the dark-haired woman staring at the Santa Muerte idol with an expression of pure terror in her eyes stood out.
“Evidence for the case I’m working on.”
“That’s not all it is.”
He sighed tiredly, the sound of distant sirens getting louder. “Yeah.”
The thing about getting shot at in broad daylight was that it came with the added layer of Patrick being a federal agent. That brought attention. Throw in Patrick being the agent who handled the case in June meant even more attention he didn’t want to deal with.
Luckily, Quetzalcoatl was more than happy to cover for him. Maybe at the expense of the case staying completely in SOA hands, but Patrick had other things to worry about.
“What is with you always getting shot at?” Casale asked in the midst of the crime scene an hour later.
Patrick wiped sweat off his forehead and shrugged. “I can explain.”
“That is the worst way to start a conversation.” Casale crossed his arms over his chest, his suit jacket pulling at his shoulders. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”
Patrick had already spent the better part of an hour giving his statement, arguing with Henry over the Santa Muerte idol still currently in Patrick’s possession inside a warded box, and making sure Quetzalcoatl didn’t try to take over the case completely. He’d managed one quick phone call with Jono to assure the other man he was all right before cutting the conversation short because of work.
“Things got messy.”
“What happened, Collins?”
Patrick conjured up a tiny mageglobe, letting it spin against his palm. He cast a silence ward, his magic encasing them in a bubble of static. Patrick looked Casale in the eye when he said, “There’s shit going down between the god pack and the Night Courts. It has to do with independent werecreatures.”
“We already know that.”
