1
Special Agent Patrick Collinsslammed the Mustang’s trunk closed, swearing when he almost dropped the umbrella and his grocery bags. Not that the umbrella was doing much good against the icy rain coming down sideways, driven by a strong wind. His damp clothes were getting wetter, and no amount of drying charms would fix that while he was outside.
“Fuck it,” Patrick muttered.
He pushed his personal shields out of his skin, letting the invisible barrier of magic protect him from the rain while under the umbrella. Patrick sighed in relief at the momentary respite from the weather. At 2130, Patrick was cold, tired, and hungry after a long day working out of the Supernatural Operations Agency’s field office. He’d stopped by Westside Market on the drive home to pick up the groceries he’d forgotten to get last night. He was too tired to cook tonight, but hopefully pizza was waiting for him at home.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, Patrick headed down the street toward the five-story brownstone apartment building he called home in Chelsea. He’d shared the top-floor apartment with Jonothon de Vere since July. He’d never realized how nice it was to have someone to come home to until he’d moved in with Jono. All those years of returning to a quiet apartment or hotel room paled in comparison of being met at the door with a kiss.
Some of the buildings he passed had windows decorated with Christmas lights and cutouts of Santa Claus and reindeer on the inside. A few had their curtains parted enough he could see the decorated Christmas trees inside the apartments. Ever since Thanksgiving, more and more homes were starting to decorate for the holidays, but everyone lagged behind the touristy spots in the city.
Patrick couldn’t wait to get home, eat, and crawl into his nice warm bed. His latest case had involved a group of kappas in the Hudson River hassling commuter ferries. He’d ended every work day for the past three soaked to the bone. Heat charms in his leather jacket aside, if some other creature took over the New York harbor during December, he was punting the job to someone else.
If he got sick, he was taking the rest of the month off and heading to Maui.
Patrick hefted the three reusable grocery bags in his right hand, ignoring the way the nylon handles dug into his palm. He needed to walk one block, and then he’d be home and warm.
When he was half a block away—so close, yet so far—recognition burned through Patrick’s magic with the heated spark of werecreatures. He squinted through the rain at the group of people standing in front of his apartment building and scowled.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Patrick groaned.
His semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol was holstered on his right hip and the gods-given dagger was strapped to his right thigh. Even with his hands full, Patrick wasn’t without a weapon.
Patrick pushed more of his magic out of his soul, letting it form a mageglobe near his left shoulder. The small sphere of raw magic hovered in the air and kept pace with him as he closed the distance between himself and the suddenly attentive group of werecreatures.
In August, Jono had declared his own god pack, separate from the New York City god pack run by Estelle Walker and Youssef Khan. That declaration had created a lot of tension between their newly formed god pack and most of the other packs in the city. More than once they’d been accosted around the one-block territory they claimed as theirs.
Patrick wasn’t in the mood for another fight. He wanted to get inside where it waswarm.
“You know, the last time some of you came sniffing around, Jono broke a dozen bones. When your kind tried that shit with me, they ended up in the hospital before getting a trip to Rikers for assaulting a federal agent. You really want that same trip?”
“We’re not here to fight,” the tall, willowy black woman retorted, not moving from her spot.
“We came to talk,” the Mexican American man standing opposite of her added.
Maybe they had, but Patrick hadn’t survived this long by taking people’s word at face value. He didn’t recognize them, and he didn’t trust them.
“Talking usually happens at Tempest,” Patrick said.
The bar that Jono managed catered to the werecreature community. It had seen a slowdown in business since they’d formed their pack but was in no danger of closing. No longer seen as neutral territory, Tempest was where those willing to risk Estelle and Youssef’s wrath went for help.
“We went there first. Jono wasn’t in.”
Patrick eyed the six werecreatures huddled underneath umbrellas as he approached. Now that he was closer, he could see the wide space between them that only happened when more than one pack was in the same vicinity.
Patrick put the grocery bags on the wet ground and dug out his cell phone, never taking his eyes off the werecreatures.
“Yeah?” Jono’s deep voice answered after the first ring, his English accent thick in Patrick’s ear. “You almost home, mate?”
“Downstairs. Got some unwanted visitors.”
Jono ended the call on his side of the line without saying a word, and Patrick put his phone away. None of the werecreatures had moved much, except maybe to huddle closer together under their umbrellas. The stormy weather was shitty, and it was cold, and Patrick really didn’t want to deal with pack issues out on the street. He didn’t want to deal with any of it right now, not after the day he’d had, but Patrick didn’t really have a choice
Less than ten seconds later, Jono yanked open the building’s front door and stepped into the storm. The long-sleeved gray Henley he wore was immediately soaked, as were his jeans. Patrick spared him a glance when he would’ve preferred to let his gaze linger. A wet Jono was always nice to look at, but keeping his eyes on the threat in front of them took priority.
“We’re not here to fight,” the woman repeated, raising a hand in a defensive manner.
“Neither are we,” the man in the other pack said.
