Casale pointedly looked over Patrick’s shoulder at the damaged entrance to Tempest and the space beyond where everyone else was holed up. “What makes you think I’m stupid?”
Patrick figured ignoring that question was his best option. “Anything else?”
“You should warn the owners that we’re getting complaints about what goes on in the bar.”
“Tell the people complaining the bar is cursed.”
“And listen to the owners bitch about their property values going down?”
“Like you take those calls.”
“My detectives do, and thenIhear about it.” Casale stepped back, pointing a gloved finger at Patrick. “I mean it. Keep me updated.”
The Wisteria case was the SOA’s problem now, not the PCB’s. Still, Patrick wanted to keep a good relationship with the NYPD, so he’d honor Casale’s request if the opportunity came up.
Patrick retreated into the bar, eyeing the pieces of what remained of the door around the entranceway. He touched a hand to the doorframe and cast a shield to help keep out the cold and any unwanted visitors, along with a silence ward that encircled the bar with static.
“Someone in the pack is bringing over a sheet of plywood as soon as the police and media clear out. We’ll get a temporary door put up tonight and go buy a new one tomorrow,” Emma said from her spot behind the bar.
Leon stood beside her with a broom in hand, sweeping up the broken glass. Sage and Marek had finished piling up the broken barstools and damaged tables for a junk haul and were assessing the rest of the bar furniture for damage.
Jono sat on a barstool, wearing a pair of spare sweats taken from the employees-only room. Emma always had spare clothing stashed away in her pack’s cars, homes, and places of work for unexpected shifts. Gerard stood a couple of feet away from Jono, his spear long since vanished from his hands to keep police from asking questions about it when they took his statement. Keith stood beside him, holding Patrick’s box of cookies and surreptitiously trying to lift the lid and steal one.
“Those are mine,” Patrick reminded him.
“I’m checking to make sure there’s no damage,” Keith replied blithely.
“Hands off,” Gerard ordered.
Keith grumbled but obeyed, closing the box and setting it on the bar counter. Patrick walked over to Jono, eyeing the red slash of bruised skin over his abdomen. He pressed his hand against the shadow of a wound, fingers stroking over hard, defined muscle and warm skin. Jono still smelled a little like alcohol, though he’d cleaned the stickiness off his skin with a spare towel.
“Who the fuck got you with the silver knife?” he asked.
Jono settled his hand over Patrick’s, flattening it against his abdomen. “Theodore and some others. The Wild Hunt took the lot, so we don’t have to worry about them anymore.”
Patrick made a face, annoyed that he couldn’t track the fuckers down and give them a piece of his mind using his dagger.
“Ooh, murder face,” Keith said with a low whistle. “Who’s this Theodore that pissed you off?”
“Probably dead. It’s his alphas I have a problem with,” Patrick replied.
“You know what happened tonight is more of a challenge than Nicholas’ visit was,” Sage warned.
Jono grimaced. “I’m aware of that.”
“God pack infighting?” Gerard asked.
“Eh.” Patrick raised his other hand and made a seesaw motion with it. “More like we’re a god pack and the one already here took offense to that.”
Gerard stared at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Okay. I’m joking.”
Jono snorted and pulled his hand away. Patrick reluctantly stepped back so Jono could stand up. He watched as Jono walked over to Gerard, sizing the other man up with a frank gaze before extending his hand.
“Jonothon de Vere, god pack alpha of New York City,” he said. “You can call me Jono.”
Gerard took his hand without hesitation. “Captain Gerard Breckenridge. Gerard is fine. Are you the one who watched Patrick’s six back in June?”
