The white columns and soaring vaulted ceilings high above were lined with Latin prayers that sparkled at the very edges of Patrick’s peripheral vision. He doubted mundane humans would ever see the magic laid down into the stone of the place. He wondered if the Pope made select allowances for the Catholic Church’s cathedrals across the world, or if it was done on the sly by the local men of faith who presided over their flocks.
Either way, the prayers had saved his ass today, so he was inclined to ignore the hypocrisy.
“Collins.”
Patrick looked away from the ceiling, head snapping around at Casale’s voice. He twisted in his seat on the long pew near the back of the cathedral and close to the entrance. Beside him, Jono did the same, one hand settling over Patrick’s hip in a proprietary manner. The scowl on Jono’s face wasn’t friendly at all. Considering the last time they’d faced Casale together Patrick had been arrested, he could understand Jono’s unfriendly attitude.
At least they’d be facing the police in decent clothes. Everyone in his pack was dressed in clothes they could fight in. Wade had been told to stay behind with Marek while everyone else ran to help Patrick once he’d yanked on the soulbond. Only after Emma’s pack had returned home did Wade gather up extra sets of clothes and hitch a ride to the cathedral to deliver the outfits to Jono and Sage. He’d entered under the glare of media cameras, and Patrick had hated putting him through that.
Wade’s identity as a fire dragon wasn’t known publicly, though it was acknowledged in some political circles. After Paris, when he’d shifted mass in front of French government magic users to save them from getting torn to pieces by millions of zombies, Wade had been careful about where he showed his face. Walking a media gauntlet wasn’t the best way to keep a low profile, but he’d refused to let anyone else deliver the clothes to his pack.
Wade was currently wandering around the nave after having disappeared for a while. Patrick had half a thought to warn the priests tending to frightened followers who still didn’t want to leave the cathedral that Wade had sticky fingers. If some of the shiny religious objects went missing, well, Patrick would tell Wade to clean his apartment again.
“Come to arrest me for a second time?” Patrick asked, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. He’d thought he had a pretty decent working relationship with the PCB, but that had come to a screeching halt with the charges levied against him.
Casale shook his head, coming to a stop beside their pew. Danai, sitting across the wide aisle from them with Sage, barely looked up from her phone when she said, “I would advise against you further speaking to the police, Patrick.”
“I’m not here to arrest him,” Casale said.
“I’ve already given my statement about what happened to detectives out of the PCB. So did Danai,” Patrick said.
Jono scowled. “We all have.”
“I know.” Casale let out a heavy sigh. “I’m here to talk to you about your civil war.”
“That’s pack business, not police business.”
Casale arched one dark eyebrow and jerked his thumb in the direction of the cathedral’s doors that led out to the street. “It’s everyone’s business when Collins’ car gets hit and he’s chased down Fifth Avenue by werecreatures.”
“It wasn’t only werecreatures chasing me. We’ve been telling you for months that the Krossed Knights and other hunters are a problem,” Patrick said.
Casale nodded, a troubled look crossing his face. “I know, but we can’t arrest people without probable cause.”
“Why not? You did that with Patrick,” Jono said caustically.
“And maybe we were wrong, but the evidence still points to Collins.”
“Not for much longer,” Danai said, finally putting her phone away. “We’re due at the US Attorney’s Office still, and the PCB promised us an escort there since my car-service vehicle is now evidence in a crime. Let’s get going.”
“Ramirez and Guthrie are waiting outside.”
Patrick didn’t immediately move, keeping his attention on Casale. “What are you going to do about Estelle? Because none of those god pack members were ours, and they didn’t care at fucking all for the safety of the civilians of this city.”
“We’ll be taking her statement and questioning her on her pack’s actions. I don’t like the alliances she’s made,” Casale said slowly.
Patrick tried not to scrape at the wooden pews with his fingernails. “You could’ve done that before we reached this point. Because now? They all have demons in their souls, same as the hunters. Your people better go with someone who knows how to exorcise demons. Maybe ask the cardinal if he wants an excuse to deal with some sinners. He came in pretty handy in a pinch.”
Casale grimaced at that warning, but he didn’t brush it aside. “I’ll see if the cardinal has anyone he can spare. I’d ask my wife, but I don’t want to risk anyone from her coven. They aren’t mages, and it seems the Dominion Sect is making trouble in New York again.”
Angelina Casale was a priestess for the Crescent Coven, a group of magic users who worshipped Hera. That goddess had acted as the coven’s high priestess to herself last summer before leaving the country for Greece once Zeus was rescued. Despite her absence, the coven continued to pray to her, providing faith and worship to give Hera memory and life.
“But you’ll risk the people working under you?” Jono asked with a faint sneer.
“That kind of risk comes with the job, and they’re trained for it. Angelina’s coven members are not.” Casale shook his head. “It wasn’t personal what we did, Collins.”
Patrick had made his share of arrests over the years, so he knew it wasn’t supposed to be personal. Considering his arrest had tipped him headfirst into a past that lived in his nightmares, he wasn’t willing to be charitable when it came to Casale’s awkward and misplaced non-apology.
“It never is. That doesn’t mean you aren’t making a bigger fucking mess than it needs to be. You and the FBI both,” Patrick said.
