“What the hell happened?” Allison asked as she walked into the bar. Dwayne was hot on her heels, and behind him came two members of CSU with gear in hand.

Patrick waved them over, not moving from his spot halfway between where Marek and Jono stood near the bar and the uniformed officers who had responded from the local station to a call of shots fired. They’d quickly learned it wasn’t a problem they could handle.

The matter with the dead demon was preternatural in nature, which meant jurisdiction was automatically conferred to the Preternatural Crimes Bureau. That didn’t stop the officers from trying to take witness statements from a known werecreature in a hostile manner. Patrick hadn’t much cared for their attitude since their arrival and had promptly pulled the federal card on them when he pulled out his badge. Police hated that tactic, but Patrick wasn’t here to make friends.

“That case you called me in for? I know what kind of demon it is,” Patrick told her when she drew close.

“Are you serious?” Dwayne asked flatly. “Six months we’ve been running this case, and you waltz in and break it wide open in less than twenty-four hours? Unbelievable.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to be the person dealing with the damned thing at the time. Trust me on that.”

“You obviously did.”

“And I’m very grateful for that since he’s the only reason we’re all alive tonight,” Marek interrupted sharply from where he was slouched against the bar, tapping away at his phone. “Where’s Casale?”

“On his way back to the PCB according to Dispatch,” Allison answered.

Marek grunted but didn’t look up from his phone. “Special Agent Collins? I need to talk to Casale.”

“Give me five minutes,” Patrick replied. He turned to face Dwayne and Allison, lowering his voice. “The demon is dead. You’re not getting anything but ashes. I’ll give Casale my report. You can read it when you get back to the station.”

“It’s Thursday night. This place is always packed. Where are all the witnesses?”

“Gone. I’m not going to guess how many were werecreatures, but they won’t want to be identified since none of them were god pack. Besides, you have witnesses. I’m bringing them back to the station with me.”

Allison frowned. “This doesn’t make any sense. This attack doesn’t follow the MO at all. A bar? It’s a public space. Everyone else was home alone behind a threshold when they died. Who was the demon after?”

Patrick tilted his head at where Marek was still typing away on his phone. Jono hadn’t said a word yet but was watching them with undisguised interest. More to the fact, he was watching Patrick, and the weight of Jono’s attention made Patrick very, very aware of his presence.

“My money’s on Marek. Which means I need to get him behind some stronger wards for the next couple of hours while we sort everything out,” Patrick said.

Marek’s head finally lifted. “A couple of hours?”

Patrick ignored him. “Scene is yours now.”

Dwayne and Allison shared a long look that Patrick couldn’t read. Finally, Allison pursed her lips before nodding. “We’ll tell the chief you’re on the way downtown while we handle everything here.”

Marek put his phone away and approached their small group. He thrust his hand out at Dwayne, looking more than a little annoyed. “Here. I made a copy of the security feed for you guys. Don’t go messing around with the computers back there without a warrant because I’m not giving you permission to take anything else.”

Dwayne took the flash drive from him with careful fingers. “Thanks.”

Marek looked as if he was ready to crawl out of his skin if he stayed there any longer. Patrick jerked his thumb at the entrance in a clear signal to leave. “We’ll talk later, Detectives.”

“Bye,” Allison replied, already turning her attention to the crime scene.

“You said your car is outside earlier,” Patrick said. “How far away is it?”

Marek would’ve led the way out of the bar if Jono hadn’t overtaken him. “I bought the parking spot from the City when I financed the bar for Emma and Leon. It’s out front.”

“I keep saying you should’ve just bought the whole bloody lot of them. Leon would quit whinging about parking if you did,” Jono said as they walked outside.

The vehicle parked right outside the bar was a glossy black Maserati GranTurismo that Patrick wouldn’t be averse to opening up on a long stretch of highway if he owned it. He wallowed in a serious case of car envy for a second or two as he took in the expensive vehicle.

Pays to be rich, he thought tiredly.

Marek unlocked the car with a beep from the electronic key fob. Patrick let Marek get behind the wheel without argument. Jono waited on the sidewalk expectantly, and Patrick reached down to move the front passenger seat forward before gesturing at Jono to get in the back.

“I’m taller than you,” Jono pointed out.

“That’s nice,” Patrick drawled. And it probably would be in any other situation. “But I’m the federal agent with a weapon. Unless you want me to shoot through you at a threat, get in the fucking back seat.”

Jono stared at him for a second or two, a slow-growing smirk curving his mouth upward at the corner. “Sure thing, mate.”

Jono got into the back seat—but not before making a point to get into Patrick’s personal space and brush against him. Patrick bit his lip, refusing to give ground, and told his traitorous dick that now was not the time to be interested. Judging by Jono’s knowing look, Patrick had failed to keep his attraction to himself.

His shields were hiding his magic, but not his scent, and Patrick belatedly fixed that with a thought as he climbed into the car. He closed the door and buckled up.

“Get us to the PCB station,” Patrick said.

“I’m not a taxi driver,” Marek replied as he pulled into the street.

“Be happy I’m letting you drive at all and we’re not taking the subway.”

“Why would we take the subway after what just happened? That’s not quick, and you seem to want quick.”

“Because of the wards. We have them in the London Underground,” Jono said.

Patrick glanced over his shoulder at the other man, mildly surprised at the correct answer. “Yeah.”

New York City’s subway was a lot like the London Underground or the Paris Metro. Hell, it was like any other rail system in the world that cut through the earth. They were old, extensive, and crammed full of people. Beyond that, they were built from the rails up by both mundane and magical means. The protective wards kept the trains and people safe while running through fringes of the preternatural world below that sometimes broke through the veil.

The subway was probably the safest public place in the City against demons right now. Patrick couldn’t say anything about pickpockets.

The drive downtown was a mostly tense, silent affair, broken only by the ringing of Patrick’s cell phone. He noted the name on the screen and didn’t hesitate to answer it.

“Collins. Line and location are not secure,” he said.

“Soultaker,” Setsuna stated flatly in greeting, ignoring Patrick’s warning.

“I see you got my message. It’s dead.”

“Any identifying trace signature?”

“No.” Which hadn’t been a surprise. Patrick rubbed his thumb against his temple, but the temporary pressure didn’t do anything to stop his headache. “I’m going to need backup.”

“I’ll put a task force together.”

“Who?”

“You’ll know when they arrive,” Setsuna said cryptically before hanging up.

Patrick pulled his phone away from his ear and scowled down at the dark screen. “Fucking hate when she does that.”

“What’s a soultaker?” Jono asked from the back seat.

“Keep your ears to yourself.”

“No promises.”

“Fucking werewolves,” Patrick muttered as he slouched in the seat.

Less than five minutes later, they reached their destination. The Preternatural Crimes Bureau took up an entire block downtown on Centre Street. The square building was five stories high, with a small adjacent parking garage that Marek pulled into. The officer on watch duty at the entrance seemed ready to read them the riot act for trying to park in a restricted area. One look at Patrick’s SOA badge got them buzzed through.

“Guest parking is next level up. You’ll need to exit the garage and enter the building from the street,” the officer said.

“Thanks,” Marek replied.

Marek drove where directed and found a spot, squeezing his car carefully between a cement pillar and an older Toyota. They got out and headed for the exit, taking the stairs down to the street. Before they even reached the PCB’s main entrance, Patrick could sense the buzz of protective wards built into its walls and foundation knock against his shields.

Shaking his head to clear it, Patrick led the way inside. The sergeant on desk duty sitting behind bulletproof and warded glass eyed their approach curiously. He wasn’t the only one.

“Sage,” Marek said, sounding relieved.

He brushed past Patrick and hurried through the lobby, making a beeline for the woman who’d stood up from one of the hard plastic chairs along the wall at their arrival. She was petite, though her high heels more than made up the difference between herself and Marek. The blue office sheath dress she wore showed off her tanned skin. Thick, straight black hair was tied back in a low, sleek ponytail, framing a face with distinct Native American features.

Patrick’s attention zeroed in on the necklace she wore as he walked closer. The turquoise pendant gave off a cool wash of magic that had a specific feel to it he only ever sensed when the fae were involved. The artifact, a portable object capable of holding magic that non-magic users could wield, was well made. Sage didn’t look like a fae, but then again, glamour could hide anything.

“I got your message,” Sage said, searching Marek’s face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I thought you were going to wait for me at home?”

Sage rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You said you were being questioned by the police. I wasn’t going to let you face that alone.”

“I told you I was okay.”

“Stupid isn’t a good look on you.”

Marek wrapped his arms around Sage and gave her a soft, welcoming kiss on the mouth. She huffed in irritation, but Patrick didn’t miss the way her hands shook ever so slightly as she pulled him closer. Marek murmured something too low for Patrick to hear before turning them around to face him and Jono.

“This is Sage Beacot, my partner. I texted her earlier about what happened tonight and where I’d be,” Marek explained without apology.

“I’m also a lawyer, specifically his,” Sage added coolly. “I’m a senior associate at Gentry & Thyme.”

Patrick’s headache throbbed a little harder at that bit of news. He hated dealing with lawyers, but he hated dealing with fae lawyers even more. Whether Seelie or Unseelie, they all gave him a migraine.

“If you’re bringing in the fae, I’m gonna have to call in someone from legal on my end,” Patrick warned.

While the fae couldn’t legally lie, they traded in half-truths and misleading language all the damn time. They were required to follow the letter—but not the spirit—of the law. Most fae outside Underhill were lawyers for a reason. Patrick wasn’t up to playing word games with one tonight.

“I’m not fae,” Sage said.

“Your artifact says otherwise.”

“Bit rude asking what everyone is,” Jono said directly behind him in a low voice that sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.

Werecreatures all had higher body temperatures than humans of any persuasion. The heat emanating from Jono’s body distracted Patrick for a second or two as he thought about how Jono would feel against him in bed. Patrick was glad his shields could hide his scent, but they couldn’t hide the way his heart skipped a beat.

“Special Agent Collins?” the sergeant asked through the speaker.

“Yeah,” Patrick said, ridiculously thankful for the interruption. He dug up the thinner wallet containing his agency ID and badge, holding it up for the sergeant to see.

“The chief is expecting you. Fifth floor. Take the first bank of elevators right past the door.”

A buzzer sounded and the door that accessed the rest of the building unlocked. Patrick eyed the way Sage stood defiantly beside Marek, expression seemingly carved from stone, and figured he had a better chance at disarming a bomb than convincing her to stay behind. He waved at them to follow him through the door.

“Come on,” he said.

They followed the sergeant’s directions and took the elevators up to the fifth floor, the doors opening onto a hallway. The open plan from Marek’s company wasn’t in practice here, and it took being escorted by a detective working late to find the conference room where Casale was waiting for them.

Casale was in a different suit than the one he’d been wearing earlier in the day. This one was a bit wrinkled, as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry. The clock hanging on the conference room wall read 2256, so that was likely the case.

“I’m thinking I should’ve appealed months ago if these are the results you get me in less than twenty-four hours,” Casale said.

“You’re entirely too happy about me fighting a demon in a bar tonight,” Patrick replied irritably.

“You got us a break in the case. I’ll take that.” He waved them to the nearest available seats even as he got out of his. “Give me a minute.”

Casale left the conference room. Patrick shrugged and chose the nearest chair to sit down in. The other three glanced at each other before sitting down on the other side of the conference table in an us-versus-them arrangement. No one spoke until Casale returned five minutes later carrying a large carton of what smelled like Chinese food, a bottle of Gatorade, and an industrial-sized bottle of Tylenol. He set all three in front of Patrick.

“Eat,” Casale ordered.

Patrick stared at the food. “Did you just steal someone’s dinner?”

“Of course not. I gave him money to go buy more and extra time on the clock for his break. Now eat.”

In the field, Patrick had always carried extra ration bars hidden away in his pockets and field pack because using magic used up energy, and he required calories to replenish both. A lot of calories. His old team knew he’d be an irritable son of a bitch until they got food in him after any fighting. They’d taken to carrying extra rations along with their own to keep him fed.

It’d been a long time since Patrick had worked with a mundane human who understood what it took to keep a magic user healthy.

Patrick grabbed the plastic fork sticking out of the carton and stabbed a piece of General Tso’s chicken. He popped the piece into his mouth and started chewing, watching as Casale took the seat at the head of the table. Casale turned his formidable attention on the other three first.

“Jonothon de Vere,” Casale said in greeting. “Do Estelle and Youssef know you’re here?”

Jono leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his broad chest, giving Casale a thoughtful look. “I’m not acting on the god pack’s behalf, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then you should go.”

“He’s a witness,” Sage countered.

“Ms. Beacot, so nice to see you again. This case really doesn’t need your presence,” Casale said.

“I’m Marek’s counsel of record for when his sight is requested. You shouldn’t have even seen him today without me present,” Sage replied coolly.

“The situation required some immediate answers, which we still haven’t received.”

“The City knows the cost of requesting his sight. Until such payment is made—”

“It’s all right, Sage,” Marek interrupted, settling his hand on hers, which were clasped together on the table. “Just this once, they don’t have to pay the fee.”

Sage gave him an incredulous look. “Marek—”

“No. Don’t argue. This situation is different.”

“Because it concerned you personally?” Casale asked, his voice dry as a desert.

“Because I didn’t see it coming, okay?” Marek snapped.

Casale stared at Marek with an unreadable look in his eyes. “I don’t care that Jono is a witness, and I don’t care about your counsel. What we need to discuss regarding your sight and this case is restricted.”

Marek shook his head. “Jono and Sage are staying.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, Marek.”

“They stay.”

Patrick paused in midbite, looking across the table at Marek. The seer had lost a bit of color in his face, eyes a little too wide as he argued with Casale. Maybe the situation was out of the ordinary, maybe it was the hint of fear in his eyes; either way, Casale caved.

“What is discussed in this room stays here,” Casale said in a hard voice. “There’s too much at stake regarding this case if information is leaked. The usual paperwork is being drawn up regarding your sight, Marek. It will apply to all of you.”

“We’re not signing anything until I see what contract you’re giving us,” Sage replied.

Patrick kept eating his stolen Chinese food, watching the conversation be punted across the table like a tennis match. The chicken was actually pretty good, as far as greasy takeout was concerned. The Gatorade left an artificial aftertaste in his mouth he could’ve done without though.

Someone knocked on the door ten minutes later before opening it. The uniformed officer handed Casale a manila folder and a couple of pens before leaving without a word. He thumbed through the papers before sliding it across the table to Sage.

“Take a look and sign it,” Casale said.

Marek reached over and plucked the folder out of Sage’s hands, grabbing a pen while he was at it. “We’re signing.”

“Marek,” Sage said exasperatedly.

He turned and looked at her, and whatever she could see in his eyes that Patrick couldn’t, it was enough to get Sage to stop arguing.

“Casale asked me about the murders on the news earlier today. I saw the demon in the bar, but I didn’t see it tonight. Sign the contract, Sage,” he said in a tight voice.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“Wow,” Patrick said. “I think that’s a first.”

“First what?” Casale asked.

“First time a lawyer is signing something without reading it. What if there’s a clause in there that says you have to give up your firstborn to the PCB?”

Sage shot him a withering look. “You’re not funny.”

“It’s happened before. The giving up the child part, not the lawyer signing without reading. Although on second thought, I’m sure that’s happened before.” Patrick pointed his fork at Marek. “Where did you see the demon?”

“You mean the soultaker?” Jono asked pointedly.

Patrick internally sighed when Casale’s head snapped around to look at him. “Just couldn’t keep your ears to yourself, could you?”

Jono smiled lazily at him and didn’t say a word.

“The demon is a what?” Casale bit out in a tight voice.

Patrick reached for the bottle of Tylenol and twisted off the cap. He shook out five of the 200 mg pills and swallowed them with the last of the Gatorade.

“You’re gonna give yourself an ulcer,” Jono warned.

“Blame the job, not the medication,” Patrick said.

“Was what you killed tonight a soultaker?” Casale demanded.

Patrick thought about lying, but something told him the Fates seeing through Marek’s eyes wouldn’t appreciate it. “Yes.”

“An explanation for those of us who aren’t versed in demonology would be nice,” Sage said.

“Soultakers are shock troop demons. They’re used in war if they’re used at all because they’re as difficult to control as they are to fight against.”

Unless one had an alliance with immortals, but that was neither here nor there. Patrick shoved those thoughts aside to deal with later, preferably with a bottle of whiskey at hand.

“They’re almost always summoned by Dominion Sect magic users,” Casale stated flatly. “Are you telling me we might have an active cell in New York City?”

“You got eight bodies carrying eight signs for the gods in death. I’d bet all the stock Marek owns in his company that soultakers are the murder weapons. Who is pulling the trigger? Your guess is as good as mine, and mine would be the Dominion Sect,” Patrick said.

Casale was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he did speak, he directed his words to Marek. “Where did you see the soultaker in your vision?”

Marek chewed on his bottom lip before letting out an explosive sigh. “There were trees around me in the vision, but I could see buildings, so I don’t know, a park? New York City has a lot of those, so good luck figuring out which one it is.”

“Anything else?”

“I could see the demon crouching over someone on the ground, but I couldn’t see who it was. I don’t know if I knew them.”

“Or if it was you,” Casale said.

Marek flinched at his words, and Patrick wondered if the Fates he served had ever showed him his own future. Sage wrapped her hand around his and gave him a gentle squeeze. Marek turned his hand in hers, threading their fingers together.

“I see the future, Casale. I see it at the whims of the gods I’m at the mercy of. It’s not always what any of us want to see,” Marek said.

Sage looked away from Marek and met Patrick’s gaze. “You seem to know how to handle this kind of demon.”

“I’m a mage. It’s my job,” Patrick replied.

Except it wasn’t something all mages were taught, because they didn’t carry damage in their souls the way Patrick did. All magic users were taught according to what their magic had an affinity for. Some practitioners handled the elements. Other practitioners healed. Still others tried to raise and enslave the dead—something frowned upon in pretty much every country now, no matter how many hits those videos got on YouTube.

Patrick had a tendency to put out fires with gasoline.

The overkill method was not the SOA’s favorite, but when push came to shove, he got the job done.

“Then why don’t you explain why it targeted Marek? You have eight bodies, and now they’re going after a seer. We have a right to know why so we can protect him and ourselves,” Jono said.

The look Jono gave Patrick was challenging but not unexpected from a god pack werewolf. Casale’s greeting earlier and Jono’s answer had piqued his curiosity about Jono’s position here in New York City. Most major metropolitan cities only had one god pack, and rivalries meant war no humans liked to see. Jono taking the lead due to his status wasn’t unusual, and Marek seemed fine with him doing so, but it might be a problem later down the road.

Patrick met Jono’s gaze across the table, refusing to give ground. “Soultakers will eat anyone’s soul, but they like the clean ones best and ones with magic even more. Marek? He’s a seer. On a scale of one to ten when it comes to power, he’s an eleven. If the Dominion Sect wants a power source to anchor whatever spell they need these souls for, then Marek would be it.”

Casale drummed his fingers against the table a couple of times before he pointed a finger at Patrick. “Ward Marek’s home tonight.”

“That’s not necessary,” Marek tried to protest.

“I think it is. I won’t put a security detail on you out of respect for your pack, but I don’t think your people will be enough to keep you safe.” Casale looked at Patrick. “Can the SOA field a witch?”

Marek shook his head. “I don’t want a government agent living with me around my pack. I won’t risk their privacy like that.”

“Then I’ll ask my wife, unless you have any objections about that?”

“No, we don’t,” Sage answered quickly for the both of them when it looked like Marek might continue to argue.

At Patrick’s questioning look, Casale said, “My wife is a priestess in a coven here in Manhattan. She can get Marek set up with someone his pack won’t mind.”

Patrick would’ve preferred a witch from the SOA, but he didn’t feel like arguing. Judging by Marek’s immediate refusal of the first offer, they’d be fighting all night about it if Patrick pushed.

“I’ll ward his home tonight. Send your witch over as soon as you can,” Patrick said.

“I’ll call my wife and get the ball rolling.” Casale pushed himself to his feet, a frown on his face. “It goes without saying if you see anything else, you tell us, Marek. Please. We’ll pay the cost, and gladly.”

“If I see anything else for this case, I won’t even charge you,” Marek said grimly.

Casale nodded. “Collins, I’d like to speak with you in private. The rest of you can wait here until I’m done with him. We won’t be long.”

Patrick left the conference room with Casale, trailing after him down a long hallway filled with small offices until they came to Casale’s. His assistant’s desk outside was covered in papers and files sorted into neat stacks. Casale’s office was large and meticulously warded with such care he doubted it was done by anyone in uniform.

“Your wife ward your office?” Patrick asked as he sat down in one of the two leather chairs in front of Casale’s wide wooden desk. The space was double the size of the offices they’d walked past, as befitting the rank Casale held.

“If Angelina could ward my life to keep me safe, I think she would.” Casale waved vaguely in the direction of the closed door. “The silence ward activates automatically. They can’t hear us no matter how hard Jono and Sage try.”

Patrick blinked at that bit of information Casale had unexpectedly given him. “Sage is a werecreature? I thought she was fae?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Casale asked.

“She carries fae magic in an artifact. I thought it helped anchor a glamour.”

Casale sighed, rubbing at his temple. “That’s on me for assuming you’d figured out her status, like you’ve figured out everything else tonight. She’s a werecreature but works for the fae. I’d feel bad about disclosing her status, but you’d have found out anyway if you’re hanging around Marek for the duration of the case.”

“Probably.”

“What happened tonight, Collins?”

“I went to the bar to ask Marek about what he saw this afternoon. Didn’t take very long for the soultaker to show up.”

“How?”

“The demon wore glamour. Only a mage could cast that spell strong enough to completely hide a demon’s presence from a bar full of werecreatures.”

“So an active cell of the Dominion Sect is a strong possibility.”

Considering Patrick’s past history with soultakers and the people who favored using them the most, he thought it was less a strong possibility and more an actuality. “Probably our only one.”

Casale nodded, seeming unsurprised at that assessment as he stared at Patrick. “You handled the one tonight. I’ve heard not even tanks could dent them during the Thirty-Day War.”

“Aerial strikes or spelled tank shells worked best. Those with ties to the preternatural world, like werecreatures, had better luck getting in close and killing the demons than mundane humans did, but it was still risky,” Patrick replied.

If Casale’s wife was a priestess in a prominent coven, notwithstanding his own rank, it was unsurprising Casale knew a bit more than the average person about the demons who’d been the backbone of the Dominion Sect’s fighters in the Middle East.

“Then how did you kill it tonight?”

Patrick rubbed at his mouth before shrugging. “That’s classified.”

“Really?” Casale asked flatly.

Patrick blinked, his mind swelling with disjointed memories of the Thirty-Day War that had broken him in ways that could never be fixed. It had started with a torn veil in the Giza Plateau, spread through the cradle of civilization, before ending in Cairo. The public still didn’t know everything that had happened during that time, despite the numerous war correspondents embedded with the military and civilian videos uploaded onto the internet during the fighting.

The truth, buried beneath a mountain of bureaucratic red tape and classified Top Secret, Eyes Only across a dozen countries, was worse. Patrick knew it only because he’d lived through it.

Hidden beneath the chaos of hell reigning on Earth for almost a month was the attempt by a Dominion Sect mage to capture a god. Bolstered by the strength of the nexus beneath Cairo that now no longer existed, the mage had almost succeeded in stealing a godhead.

It wasn’t the first time they’d tried it.

In the end, it took the sacrifice of a different god to put an end to that madness when Patrick couldn’t finish the job. The official report of how the Thirty-Day War ended didn’t include his name, and Patrick was fine with that. He didn’t want to go down in history as the guy who fucked up even as the world declared victory. If he’d done what he was supposed to do back then, if he’d done what the immortals who sided with heaven had ordered him to do, he wouldn’t be in this situation now, watching history repeat itself.

Patrick took a deep, silent breath and tried to steady his thoughts. Hindsight was always so fucking perfect and so fucking useless.

“I was trained at the Citadel and spent nine years with the US Department of the Preternatural in the Mage Corps before leaving for the SOA. So, yeah, Casale. The missions I’ve been assigned and the cases I’ve worked are classified at a level you can’t reach. I’ve seen things and done things your average witch will never have experienced,” Patrick said.

“Regardless of the appeal I sent through, I don’t trust the SOA,” Casale told him. “Your last few directors have been self-serving, and the one before all of them was a traitor. Tell me why I should trust you?”

“Because I’m all you’ve got,” Patrick said simply, meeting Casale’s gaze and not looking away. “So give me a week, Casale. One week to see if I can’t stop whatever is happening around these murders. I’ll keep you in the loop and work with you.”

The silence weighed heavily between them for a long minute before Casale finally relented.

“One week,” Casale agreed in a low voice. “And I want your word as binding that you’ll keep the PCB updated. I don’t care that the case is now under federal jurisdiction. This is my City, and it’s my job to help keep it safe.”

Promises, contracts, oaths, agreements—they were all binding in ways even the gods respected. Whether written down or spoken out loud, tying a person’s soul to their words bound them to a commitment they could not escape.

Patrick should know.

He’d tried.

“One week,” Patrick echoed. “Thanks for your understanding.”

“Christ, don’t thank me for this. Get out of my office. We’re done for tonight.”

“I’ll send you my report later for your files.”

Casale waved a hand in irritation. “Do what you have to do. Just make sure the City is still standing at the end.”

Considering the ruins that parts of Cairo ended up in, as well as other cities in the Middle East, it was a reasonable request. Patrick just wasn’t sure he could meet it.