Patrick hadn’t told anyone at the SOA the Morrígan’s staff was broken, nor that he’d kept a piece of it. Even with Setsuna in a position of power, Patrick didn’t trust the government to do right by what was, in all honesty, a weapon of mass destruction. He’d reported that breaking up Ilya’s spellcasting and magical support had been enough to put a stop to the zombie invasion.
Putting into his report that he’d had help from the gods wouldn’t have been believed by the people handling the fallout. Gods might walk the earth, but their worshippers weren’t the ones in power these days. Patrick’s case report had been as detailed as he could afford it to be, but there were obvious gaps people were still arguing over in three countries.
Setsuna had done her best to keep Patrick out of the political line of fire. On her orders, Henry had restricted Patrick to mostly desk duty since his return to the States last month. Desk duty was abhorrently boring, and Patrick was itching for work outside the walls of his office.
“I know Setsuna wants you to remain within New York City and keep a low profile, but Casale asked for you specifically on the phone call I just got off of,” Henry said.
Giovanni Casale, Chief of the NYPD Preternatural Crimes Bureau, was someone Patrick had worked closely with on several cases in the past. As far as relationships with local police went, he hadn’t yet burned that bridge.
Patrick tried not to look eager about finally getting to leave the office. “What did he want?”
“He’s currently at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Apparently there was a break-in over the weekend, but the museum director didn’t see fit to call the police until today.”
“Why is Casale’s department involved if it’s a case about stolen art?”
“Because the item in question was an artifact.”
Patrick bit the inside of his cheek and swallowed a groan. He could’ve done without another missing magical item to track down. The Morrígan’s staff was enough of a headache.
“What kind?”
Henry shrugged. “Casale described it as part of a traveling exhibition but wouldn’t say more than that. If it didn’t have any magical properties, the case would’ve gone to the FBI. Since it is of a magical nature, he’s requesting some federal help. You, specifically. I told him you’d be there in thirty minutes. Someone will be waiting for you at the museum’s main entrance.”
Patrick tried not to wince. Despite the low profile he’d been forced to take due to the zombie invasion in Paris, he hadn’t been able to stay out of Casale’s way when it came to pack politics.
While in London, they’d confirmed demons were working with hunters to take over god packs and break their power. Without stable god packs to fight for the rights of werecreatures, the packs who looked to them for guidance would lose protection, opening them up to discrimination and quite possibly outright murder.
Hunters allied with werecreatures was anathema, but werecreatures sharing their souls with demons was worse. It was a problem that had been growing in New York City since February when Estelle Walker and Youssef Khan, alphas of the rival god pack, had contracted with the Krossed Knights. Patrick had been in Chicago when the bounty on Jonothon de Vere was activated. Since then, they’d been fighting guerilla-style battles in all five boroughs as the civil war in the werecreature community spilled out of the shadows. The PCB wasn’t thrilled with any of that.
Alliances with the fae and the Night Courts helped guard their territory borders, but Patrick knew they couldn’t rely on that support forever. Their god pack held half the city now, territory twisted like gerrymandered districts through Estelle and Youssef’s. Casale had warned Patrick last month rumors were reaching the police about his personal involvement.
He doubted those rumors had died down.
They’d played off Jono’s involvement in Europe as being one of Patrick’s criminal informants. The story was thin, but they were sticking to it. They all knew that wouldn’t be believed forever, especially if some enterprising reporter dug up their lease information.
“I’ll leave now,” Patrick said, realizing he wouldn’t get a lunch.
Henry pinned Patrick with a look. “If the case takes you out of the five boroughs, it will be reassigned.”
Patrick bristled at that order. “It’s my case.”
“And the director was clear on your current limitations.”
Patrick had half a mind to call Setsuna and tell her to lift the restrictions, but he had a feeling she’d ignore his call. “Fine.”
“Keep me updated. That’s an order, Collins.”
Patrick nodded, knowing better than to antagonize someone who was in his corner. Henry had let him run his cases how he saw fit and backed him in moments other SAICs might not have. His predecessor definitely wouldn’t have. Henry’s loyalty was to the agency, but it helped that he believed in Setsuna’s quiet eradication of Dominion Sect supporters and sympathizers within the SOA.
Patrick left the office and grabbed his chips off Tiana’s desk. He ate them quickly on the elevator ride down to the lobby, bypassing the floor his office was on completely. He left the SOA’s New York City field office with his dagger strapped to his right thigh, tactical pistol holstered to his right hip, and badge tucked away in his back pocket. The second he stepped beyond the warded walls and air-conditioned interior of the federal building, he was met by a wave of humid heat that had him sweating before he even finished crossing the street.
Summer in New York City was as bad as the ones he’d lived through growing up in Washington, DC. They were both swamp-like in their own way, and no amount of cold charms in his clothing could fix that. It’s why his leather jacket had a permanent spot in the closet now until the weather cooled down.
His Mustang was parked in the adjacent warded garage, in need of something more than a detail job from getting clawed by a werecreature over the driver’s-side door the other week. Patrick hadn’t had the time to get it seen to between work and pack problems.
Getting behind the steering wheel, Patrick started the engine and then turned the air-conditioning on full blast. Sighing in relief at the coolness blasting him in the face, he pulled out and drove toward the exit, mentally mapping out his route. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was located at the edge of Central Park. Heading Uptown on Madison Avenue was going to take some time. Tourists were out in force, and Monday traffic was always the worst in his opinion.
Being the height of summer, one would think Central Park would be a riot of greenery. Driving past it on his way to the museum, Patrick noticed the trees didn’t seem as thick as they should for the season, and the flashes of lawn and bushes he caught glimpses of looked thin and brown. It looked as if autumn was coming early despite the hot weather.
Sage and Marek had a view of Central Park from their home, and she’d commented on the change the other day, noticing it happening in other parks across the city as well when she went to meet with some of the packs under their protection. Nothing out of the ordinary on the magic front had come through the SOA regarding the flora change though. Local opinion seemed to think it might have been leftover damage from last summer, but Patrick wasn’t so sure. Central Park had looked fine in spring, and the wilting of the plants was more recent.