It wasn’t Jono’s voice that came out of his mouth, but Fenrir’s, the harsh tones of his animal-god patron scraping at his throat. Lucien acknowledged the god’s presence with a hard smile that drove the color from his lips.
“The only god I fear is my mother. You will never hear my prayers.”
“Maybe you should auction off a bit of your hubris,” Jono said as he turned his back on Lucien and headed for the door where Patrick impatiently waited. “Could probably pay off this flat’s mortgage with the funds.”
He left the penthouse for the foyer, skirting the chandelier with its tangle of magic. Patrick was holding open the lift doors, and Jono stepped past him into the car.
“Why’s everyone so worried about some church?” Wade asked as the lift doors closed and it started to descend.
“Because it’s a church founded and run by necromancers,” Sage said.
“It’s a cult,” Patrick corrected.
“It’s a problem.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Wade opened his mouth to ask another question, but the lift came to a stop and the doors slid open. He stayed quiet until they made it back to the car.
“Do you think they’ll outbid us for the staff?” Wade asked.
“They’ll try,” Patrick said.
Jono started the engine and worked the gears as he drove onto the street. “Think Lucien can pull it off?”
Patrick’s face appeared as if it were carved from stone when Jono glanced at him, the streetlights they passed washing him out. His shields were still locked down, and Jono couldn’t get anything off him.
“Lucien loves his bottom line too much not to.”
“That’s not a ringing endorsement.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“If we can’t rely on Lucien, then what do we do?”
Patrick’s right hand strayed toward his dagger. “Whatever we have to.”
Jono bloody well hated that plan.
7
The UK’sDepartment for Witchcraft and Supernatural Affairs was located at One Horse Guards Road. The gray stone building took up what passed as a city block in the City of Westminster. On a Wednesday morning, the streets were full of cars ferrying government officials to work, but the sidewalks were just as bad with commuters exiting the Tube. The business of government never really stopped, but mornings were usually the busiest.
Patrick drove down Parliament Street, left hand resting on the gearshift as he kept an eye on the traffic. Jono had offered to drive him, but Patrick had no trouble handling a manual vehicle, and he hadn’t wanted any British officials to know they were working together in London. They couldn’t do anything about CCTV, but they could steer clear of being together near government buildings.
He changed lanes a couple of buildings from the turnoff, eventually pulling into a short narrow drive leading to the Triple-Arched Bridge entrance. The wards written into the stone pillars and the arches burned hot to his senses, the magic old, layered, and powerful. Patrick braked to a stop between two of the pillars, rolling down his window so he could speak to the security guard on duty.
“Special Agent Patrick Collins,” he said, holding out his SOA badge for the man to review. “I’m here for a meeting.”
“Right, then. Let me check your credentials.”
The security guard took Patrick’s badge into the tiny guard station built inside one of the pillars. Patrick waited, engine idling, until the man returned and handed back his badge. The yellow arm of the security gate ahead of him raised for passage.
“You’re cleared through. Turn left up ahead into the courtyard.”
Patrick drove forward and turned where directed, pulling into a wide circular courtyard ringed by the building’s walls. He took the first available parking spot that didn’t look reserved. He was getting out of the car, tugging his suit jacket into place around the lower back sheath that held his dagger, when a crisp female voice called out to him.
“Special Agent Patrick Collins, I presume?”
