Considering Patrick was pretty damn certain Kristen was Hel, he wasn’t looking forward to that. “Right. Anything else?”
“Get it to stop snowing.”
Patrick snorted. “I have zero affinity for weather magic. Sorry, you’re stuck.”
Dabrowski waved him off. “Report in when you find something. I’m going to be living at the office this weekend it feels like.”
Patrick left the SAIC’s office, intent on stopping by his borrowed one to update his report before heading back to the hotel. He didn’t pay any attention to the other agent that got into the elevator with him until they spoke.
“Fancy meeting you here, Pattycakes.”
Patrick’s head snapped up, and he stared in disbelief at where Hermes lounged against the other side of the elevator, dressed in a generic suit, but still sporting his dyed curls. They were a neon orange tipped in fire truck red this time, ensuring he’d stand out in a crowd. Patrick assumed a lot of magical misdirection went into no one in the SOA building seeing the non-regulation hair color.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Patrick said.
Hermes wiggled his fingers at Patrick. “My job, Pattycakes. I hope you’re hungry because I’m here to take you to dinner.”
“I’m not eating with you.”
“You’re mistaken. I’m not the one you’re having dinner with. That would be Persephone.”
Patrick went cold. The thought of facing the goddess who owned his soul debt was not something he ever liked doing. He swallowed thickly, fingers tightening on the file he carried. “I had dinner plans already, and I’m in the middle of a case.”
“Cancel. I’m to take you to her, and we both know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Not through the veil,” Patrick said sharply. “I can’t lose any time.”
“A few hours won’t hurt you. It didn’t hurt your wolf the other night.”
Patrick stared at him. “What?”
Hermes shoved himself away from the wall as the elevator slowed to a stop. “Didn’t he tell you? Fenrir dragged him and Lucien across the veil to have a friendly little chat in Ginnungagap.”
Patrick swallowed, refusing to show the hurt and anger that Hermes’ words dredged up. Jono had told him about Lucien, but not that they’d gone past the veil.
He’s sleeping on the couch when we get back home.
“I need to put my case file away, and we’redriving, Hermes,” Patrick said flatly.
The god smirked, icy amusement in his gold-brown eyes. “Sure thing, Pattycakes.”
Patrick had to remind himself that punching Hermes in the face would result in nothing but possible broken bones and some definite bruises—for himself.
Hermes followed Patrick out of the elevator and to the visiting agent office he’d been assigned since arriving in Chicago. He locked the case file in a filing cabinet, grabbed his leather jacket off the hook behind the door, and pulled on his beanie and gloves.
Patrick wasn’t waylaid by anyone on his way out of the building. He figured Hermes had something to do with that, but didn’t say anything. They walked in silence to the parking garage across the street, snow pelting them with every step they took. By the time Patrick made it to his second SUV he’d been given from the local motor pool, his nose felt frozen and so did his fingers.
“I hate reactionary storms,” Patrick muttered as he started the car and turned the heater on full blast. “Where am I going?”
“Dunkin’ Donuts on West Adams Street,” Hermes said.
“I thought you said dinner?” Patrick stared at him. “Are you serious?”
Hermes tugged on his tie, and Patrick watched his clothes melt away as if they weren’t real, revealing the outfit Patrick normally expected to see him in: ripped jeans, an old band T-shirt, and a spiked leather jacket.
“Persephone likes their donuts.”
Patrick wasn’t going to question a goddess’ taste in food and so kept his mouth shut.
