“I’ll come along. Ramirez can take it from here,” Casale said, nodding at his detective.
“We aren’t closing the exhibit down while you’re there. The museum is open, and it will be too noticeable if we attempt to close off that area right now,” Cynthia warned as she opened the office door.
Casale stared her down. “We already lost possible evidence by your delay in reporting the crime. That isn’t helpful. We’ll handle this review as we see fit.”
“What did you do with the display case?” Patrick asked Phillippe.
The director waved a hand at them. “It’s still in the exhibit room. We left a placard stating the trishula has been taken off exhibit for the time being.”
Patrick caught Casale’s eye and shook his head in disbelief. The things some people did to try to save their own ass. Not that he had any room to talk.
“Let’s go,” Casale said.
Patrick was glad Casale had opted for a suit over a uniform. It meant neither of them stood out when they finally made it to the special exhibition gallery in the center of the museum. Cynthia walked them past the timed-entry line, leading them to the room that had held the Trishula of Shiva and currently still held other artifacts.
The second Patrick stepped into the exhibit room, recognition cut through his shields, the warning burning through his magic. Patrick’s head snapped to the side, gaze skimming the nearby crowd. His attention settled on a man who made his lips curl into a snarl.
“Excuse me,” Patrick said curtly.
He left Casale and Cynthia without explanation, sliding through the small crowd, never taking his eyes off Youssef Khan. The alpha of the rival New York City god pack watched him come with a sharp smile, amber eyes bright in the dim lighting of the exhibit room. He hadn’t bothered with sunglasses, which ensured everyone gave him a wide berth.
Youssef was in his forties, stocky and dark-haired, and married to Estelle. Patrick was of the opinion their marriage was a power exchange rather than one built out of love. They’d kept a stranglehold on the packs in New York City over the years, but Patrick’s pack was rapidly changing that. Niceties had long since been left by the wayside between their packs. The fact that Youssef was here didn’t bode well. It made Patrick hyperaware of his space, knowing other werecreatures could be in the Met. Aside from that, their paths crossing right now was decidedly not a coincidence.
“Come to gloat over your crime scene?” Patrick asked lightly, unable to keep the venom out of his voice.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Youssef drawled.
“Right. Because you aren’t making deals with devils, except for how you are.”
“Again, you’re making accusations that have no merit.”
“How long have you been following me?”
“I wasn’t, but even if I was, you’re easy enough to track.”
“I doubt that.”
“You leave a lot of damage behind wherever you go. Here. Chicago. Paris.”
Youssef’s smile settled somewhere in the vicinity of a smirk. Patrick’s magic wasn’t picking up any hint of hell from the older man, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been around any hunters carrying demons in their souls. After everything they’d uncovered in London, Patrick knew it was only a matter of time before the demons came out.
“Stalking is a crime, especially when a federal agent is the target,” Patrick said.
Youssef stepped closer, not bothering to keep his voice down. “But you’re not just a federal agent, are you? Stands to reason you’re fair game in your other capacity. I’ve always been curious if your superiors know of your true allegiance and how it affects your cases.”
Patrick fought against clenching his teeth, trying to keep any physical tells to the bare minimum. “If you’re here to fight—”
“I’m here to enjoy the fine arts.” Youssef’s gaze briefly flickered over Patrick’s shoulder before returning. “The Met is open to everyone.”
“Is there a problem?” Casale asked from behind Patrick, voice calm and easy.
Youssef rocked back on his heels, never taking his eyes off Patrick. “No problem, Casale.”
“Then you might want to move along. We’re working.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. Youssef seemed more willing to listen to Casale than to Patrick—whether for ulterior motives or otherwise, Patrick couldn’t tell. Considering what was going on, Patrick would leave the Met later as if he were heading into a war zone. He didn’t trust Youssef not to try to ambush him out in the open.
Youssef left the exhibit room at a lazy pace, secure in the knowledge that Patrick couldn’t do anything to him. Patrick wasn’t sure how far the other man would really go, so he pushed magic out of his damaged soul and conjured up a tiny mageglobe. He closed his fingers around the softly glowing pale blue sphere, filling it with a silence ward. Static washed over the space he and Casale stood in, bringing with it an all-consuming quiet.
