Casale didn’t so much as glance at Jono when he spoke. “Are you going to let us in, or are we going to do this the hard way? The SOA sent me a mage just in case, even after I told the SAIC that wouldn’t be necessary. I told the FBI the same thing. I hope you won’t prove me wrong, Collins.”
The mageglobe burning in Patrick’s hand faded away to nothing, and he let his arm fall back to his side. The shield surrounding them dissipated, taking with it the scent of magic. “Is the warrant only for me?”
Casale nodded. “Jonothon hasn’t been charged.”
Theyetlingered in the air between them all. Jono ground his teeth so hard one of them cracked.
“Then let’s get this over with.”
Patrick stepped backward, forcing Jono to move as well. He watched as Casale and the ESU officers marched into the flat. They were followed by people in suits and jackets with FBI printed on the back. Everyone separated and started going through the flat in a way that clearly showed they were looking for something.
“Do you have a search warrant?” Jono snapped.
The FBI agent who seemed to be in charge held up another folded piece of paper. “Right here.”
Jono snatched it out of the man’s hand, his quick motions causing the ESU officers to point their guns at him. Jono ignored them as he opened up the search warrant, skimming the legal language. Enough time spent around Sage meant he could parse some of it, but not most of it.
“You have the bloody murder weapon. What more do you need?” Jono asked, glaring at Casale.
Casale didn’t answer him, and Jono realized bitterly that the other man wouldn’t. Casale’s job was to protect New York City, and Jono would always be the enemy in some way by virtue of the werevirus running through his veins.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” the lead FBI agent said.
Patrick wordlessly complied, not reacting when the man snapped handcuffs as well as two bracelets around his wrists. The bracelets stank of magic, and Patrick’s scent started to finally bleed through the air, his shields abruptly going down. Jono figured the cuffs had to suppress magic in some way if Patrick was forced to alter his shields. Patrick’s mouth twisted in displeasure as he stared at Jono.
“Call Danai, then call Sage,” Patrick said, ignoring the agent reading him his Miranda rights.
Jono nodded, his gaze falling to Patrick’s bare feet. “Let me get your shoes.”
“You’ll stay right there,” the FBI agent ordered.
“It’s a pair of fuckingshoes. I’m not arming him, and you aren’t walking him out of our home in front of the media in bare feet,” Jono snapped.
“You don’t give the orders here.”
“You can take your sodding attitude and get the fuck out of my face.”
Jono was furious and afraid—for Patrick, and what this all meant for their pack. The threshold wrapped around the flat tapped into his emotion and read it as a threat for the first time ever. He didn’t have magic, but the magic surrounding their home reacted to protect them.
A deep hum ripped through the air as a bright light flashed in the corners of Jono’s eyes. Pressure filled the air before sliding off him like water. Patrick appeared equally unaffected, but the same couldn’t be said for everyone else in the flat.
Power ripped through their home, dragging everyone who had entered it right back out to the landing. It didn’t care about being nice, and quite a few people were banged into walls or doorframes during their expulsion. It took seconds to clear the flat of everyone except Jono and Patrick. Even the mage the SOA had sent along couldn’t stop the threshold from barring the police and FBI.
Patrick stared at where a couple of FBI agents were sprawled on the landing, others having been shoved down the stairs to the landing below. Pained groans and people swearing filled the air. Patrick turned his head to stare at Jono, lips twitching at the corners with a humorless smile.
“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” Patrick said.
Jono snorted. “I didn’t do anything. I’m not the one with magic.”
“No, you just live here.”
Jono headed for the bedroom, rocking to a startled halt past the doorway, the smell of ozone bright and sharp in his nose. He stared at the god wearing a jacket with FBI printed across the back who hadn’t been chucked out of the flat by the threshold.
“What the bloody fuck areyoudoing here?” Jono hissed, keeping his voice low.
Hermes closed the nightstand drawer on Patrick’s side of the bed, holding up the small, warded iron box that contained the broken-off bit of the Morrígan’s staff to wiggle it at Jono. “We’d wondered where this had gone.”
Jono ducked into the closet to retrieve Patrick’s combat boots. “Don’t you dare remove that for the feds.”
