“Says so on the badge, doesn’t it?” Wade said.
“Quiet,” Patrick said without looking at him. “It’s been a long flight, and we just want our room.”
Ekam drew in a breath that Patrick knew was meant to get their scent. Patrick didn’t know what he’d get off them—Patrick’s shields were locked down now and Wade’s aura had been human to his senses since they’d gotten on the plane at LaGuardia. If it was Jono’s scent somehow, well, he’d be fine with that at least.
Ekam turned his attention back to the computer. “I have a double deluxe on a midfloor ready for you. I’ll need a credit card.”
Patrick handed over his card, signed what he needed to, then shoved the card back into his wallet once it was returned. Ekam handed over two electronic room key cards, and Patrick promptly gave one to Wade. “Don’t lose it.”
Wade pocketed it and burped. “Okay. I’m hungry.”
Patrick hoped the minibar in their room came with decent alcohol. “What’s our room number?”
“You’re in room 1209,” Ekam said, polite enough. “Enjoy your stay.”
If this little interaction was anything to go by, that wasn’t going to happen. Patrick grabbed the handle of his suitcase and jerked his head in the direction of the elevator. “Let’s go.”
Wade followed after him, chewing on a fingernail. He kept looking around at everything, his curiosity obvious. It made Patrick wonder how often Wade had ever been in a hotel growing up before he was kidnapped. He didn’t linger too much on that thought. If Wade wanted to talk about his past with them, he knew he could. Patrick wasn’t going to ask prying questions because he knew how much someone’s past could hurt.
“Twelfth floor, coming right up,” Wade said as he pressed the button once they were in the elevator. “If that guy was a werecreature, are we moving hotels?”
Patrick chewed on his bottom lip, watching the floor numbers flash by. “Wouldn’t really do much good now that they know we’re in town. I’ll lay down a threshold once we’re in the room.”
It wouldn’t be as strong as the ones wrapped around their homes because hotels were technically public domains. People might stay in them, but they weren’t a home. Magic wasn’t going to seep into the foundation of the building and protect it against people or monsters who had no right to be there when a hotel was meant for everyone.
Patrick still did his damnedest to wrap their hotel room with a threshold while Wade decided which bed he wanted. He was picky about where he slept. Patrick still remembered the three hours they’d spent at Macy’s in Manhattan last summer helping him decide on a mattress. It had been annoying at the time, but they’d stayed until Wade had lain on every bed at least twice before finally making his decision.
“This one is mine,” Wade said, flopping down on the one closest to the window.
The curtains were open, allowing them to see the lit-up Chicago skyline. Patrick dropped his backpack on the other bed before approaching the window and staring out at the view for a few seconds. Then he pulled the curtains shut.
“Unpack and get ready for bed. I need to be at the local field office at 0800 tomorrow, and I want to sleep,” Patrick said.
“But I’m still hungry,” Wade whined.
Patrick sighed and headed for the nightstand that separated the two double beds. He picked up the phone, checked which extension was room service on the little welcome booklet, then looked at Wade. “What do you want?”
Wade smiled smugly, looking pleased with himself now that he was getting his third meal of the night. “A hamburger. Two of them. With extra fries. Oh, and dessert. Cheesecake if they have it.”
Patrick had a feeling he was going to run through his allotted travel stipend for food within the first twenty-four hours of being in Chicago. He wondered if Setsuna would accept kept fledgling dragon fed so he didn’t eat the locals as an excuse for reimbursements.
3
Special Agent Kelly Russell was short, blonde, and a witch. She couldn’t quite keep the discomfort out of her expression when she shook Patrick’s hand in the conference room upon first meeting, but she was polite enough not to mention it. Patrick was pretty sure it had to do with his tainted magic because he hadn’t bothered shielding completely since leaving the hotel earlier. Possibly also because he was flying in and taking over a case someone else already had.
Either way, her annoyance was noted.
“Collins. Nice to meet you,” Kelly said, sounding only slightly dubious. “This is my partner, Special Agent Benjamin Garcia.”
She waved at the stocky older man standing beside her who looked like mornings were the enemy, or maybe just Patrick. The man was older than Patrick by at least ten years, with bits of gray scattered through his dark brown hair and a face that was a little pockmarked on the cheeks. He felt human to Patrick’s magic, which was a normal status for many SOA agents.
Benjamin reluctantly offered his hand for Patrick to shake. The two might not like him being in Chicago, but they were all technically on the same side, which meant everyone had to pretend to be polite. Patrick took that with a grain of salt, knowing Setsuna still hadn’t eradicated all the people with Dominion Sect sympathies out of the SOA. Cleaning house was never easy.
“Were you briefed?” Benjamin asked.
“With what was sent over, but you two have been working the case, so why don’t you tell me what’s going on,” Patrick said.
Letting local agents take the lead in the beginning usually helped smooth things over, but not always. Considering the last time Patrick had been in Chicago he had maybe been responsible for a fire demon scorching the Bean, and, well, it was no wonder no one was happy to see him.
“What do you know about the candidates running for mayor in Chicago?” Kelly asked as she sat down at the conference table. Benjamin took the seat beside her, and Patrick opted to sit opposite them.
“Nothing? Chicago isn’t my city, so I don’t pay attention to your politics unless something hits the national news,” Patrick admitted.
Rather than look annoyed, Kelly just shrugged. “This case might make it there.”
She pushed a folder across the table, and Patrick dragged it closer to him, flipping it open. Inside was documentation he’d familiarized himself with on the plane, along with case notes that hadn’t been included, either due to time or classification levels. Considering they were dealing with politics, it was probably the latter.
Dean Westberg was a man in his late thirties, handsome in a fashion model way, rich by way of a local real estate empire, and looking to break into politics. He seemed to fit the mold of a politician well enough with his background, and had been married for nearly ten years to a socialite, with no known affairs.
His platform was generally that of a conservative democrat, though Patrick could read between the lines easily enough. Westberg might say he didn’t care that people had magic or were part of the preternatural world, but his personal bias was pretty clear. He offered up practiced lip service when it came to those of the preternatural world—meaning he didn’t personally care for them, or the rights accorded them, but would follow the law. His views on magic ran about the same, and Westberg hinted it was his faith that shaped his worldview.