Patrick’s cell phone going off jarred him out of a light sleep. He automatically reached for his handgun where it rested on the nightstand near the bedside lamp before he was even fully awake. The knee-jerk reaction of get up, grab your weapon, and go had yet to fully leave him even three years out of the Mage Corps.

Picking up his phone instead of his handgun, Patrick squinted at the screen. The time read 0729. The incoming call was a New York City area code, with no name attached.

“Collins. Line and location are not secured,” Patrick said when he answered, voice rough from sleep.

A crisp, decidedly annoyed female voice came through the speaker, not familiar to Patrick at all. “Special Agent Collins? This is Special Agent in Charge Rachel Andrita.”

Patrick winced, flopping onto his back. “Ma’am.”

“I understand you stopped by yesterday to pick up keys to your housing assignment and didn’t bother to let me know you were on the premises.”

“Something came up.”

Rachel paused, as if waiting for him to continue. She let out an annoyed huff when she realized he had nothing else to add. “I expect to see you at my office at nine o’clock sharp.”

Patrick wondered if it was too tactless to hope another body would turn up within the next hour and give him an excuse to miss the meeting.

Probably, he mused. “Understood, ma’am.”

“Good.”

Rachel hung up and Patrick tossed his phone on the bed, the charger cord nearly pulling it to the floor. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he winced at the tightness in his neck and the faint ache in his chest. His headache was gone, but the reminder of last night’s dance with a demon still hadn’t faded completely.

Patrick got out of bed, grabbed some clothes from his suitcase, and headed for the bathroom. If pressed, he could get ready in ninety seconds or less, but he wasn’t in a hurry this morning, mostly because of Rachel’s ultimatum. So he took his time under the shower spray, letting the warm water loosen his knotted muscles.

What he wouldn’t give to be waking up on a resort beach in paradise. The apartment didn’t even have coffee. Patrick wasn’t doing anything work related until he had some coffee.

He scrubbed himself clean, soaping off any last lingering traces of Jono he carried on his skin. Thinking about last night was dangerous territory, so he didn’t, refusing to indulge in a morning jack-off session because he knew what he’d be missing. It made for a nice memory though, despite the situation.

Patrick finished up and got out of the shower, drying off with a white towel that looked and felt like it belonged in a cheap hotel. He got dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans and a wrinkled button-down shirt that he immediately rolled up the sleeves on.

The agency dress code was supposed to be business suits, but field agents were known to ignore it more often than not. Patrick wasn’t all that interested in running after a preternatural suspect in a suit and smooth-soled Oxfords in ninety-degree heat. He left the towel on the bathroom floor and went back to the bedroom to pull on his boots and strap on his tactical handgun and dagger.

When Patrick came into the living room, he found Jono lying on the floor instead of the couch, shirtless, with one arm thrown over his eyes. The extra blanket from the closet was tangled around his waist, putting his chiseled abs on display. Patrick stopped staring at his phone in favor of staring at Jono, idly wondering if Jono’s muscle definition was as hard as it looked and if he could maybe check using his tongue.

For scientific reasons, of course.

It’s a fucking shame we didn’t get out of our clothes last night, Patrick thought.

Too bad it wasn’t happening again.

“What was wrong with the couch?” Patrick asked.

“Hard as a bloody rock,” Jono mumbled, not moving.

“You need to get ready. I got someplace to be, but I need coffee first.”

“Nine o’clock meeting, yeah, I heard.”

Patrick kicked Jono’s bare foot sticking out from the blanket, earning him a sleepy-eyed glare. “Remember house rule number one? You keep your eyes, ears, and nose to yourself.”

Jono very obviously let his gaze travel up and down Patrick’s body. “I’d rather break the rules like last night.”

“Last night was a onetime-only thing.”

“Of course it was,” Jono drawled.

Patrick refused to acknowledge the way Jono’s deep voice affected him, opting instead to lock down his shields as tight as he could. Judging by Jono’s sudden frown, whatever he’d been picking up from Patrick’s scent, it was gone now.

As much as Patrick wanted to take Jono to bed, it would be unprofessional and possibly dangerous. He didn’t trust the gods and their unknown reasoning for wanting Jono to stay. Whether or not he could trust Jono remained to be seen.

Jono rolled to his feet in a smooth motion, the blanket falling away from his naked body. Patrick’s eyes drifted downward, getting an eyeful of Jono’s gorgeous cock. He resolutely didn’t think about how this morning could have gone if he didn’t have a SAIC riding his ass. He had a feeling he’d enjoy it more if it was Jono.

Blowing off Rachel to blow Jono would earn him zero points with Setsuna. Sometimes his job was the ultimate cockblock.

“I can’t smell you,” Jono said, stepping into his personal space.

Patrick lifted his phone, pressing the power button so they could both see the time on the lock screen. “Five minutes, then I’m leaving without you.”

“The Fates that Marek sees for wouldn’t like that.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

The words came out harsh, falling between them like heavy stones. Jono blinked, taking a step back in the face of Patrick’s sudden and intense fury that he couldn’t contain. Taking a deep breath, Patrick reined in his anger as much as he could, but he’d never reacted well to orders given by gods.

They always ended up fucking him over, and not in the good way.

Jono looked at him for a moment before tipping his head in the direction of his overnight bag. “Five minutes, you said? Don’t leave without me.”

Patrick didn’t dignify that with a response, too annoyed at himself for not policing his emotions. He was a better agent than that, but this case was getting under his skin. The hints Patrick could see in the evidence, the presence of gods—none of it was good.

Almost exactly five minutes later, Jono came out of the bathroom in jeans, a gray T-shirt, Chukka boots, and his black hair gelled into some semblance of style. Patrick let himself look for a second or two because he damn well wanted to.

“Very Euro trash,” Patrick said.

Jono slipped on his Ray-Bans to hide his distinctive eyes and headed for the door. “You’re one to talk. Aren’t you feds supposed to wear suits?”

“The last time I wore a suit I ended up running through a forest after a wendigo and ripped my clothes to shreds when I took a header down a hill. I stopped doing suits after that.”

That had happened during his second case with the SOA. Patrick had reverted to his current style of dress after that, and Setsuna had let his choice in clothing slide without comment. Patrick took what wins he could get with her and was happy.

He locked the door on his way out and raised the strengthened threshold wrapped around the apartment. He rubbed away the twinge of pain in his chest, the physical ache an echo of the magical one in his soul.

Patrick had googled the nearest place providing food and coffee while Jono got ready. The little coffee shop half a block away looked like a local chain dedicated to the art of coffee, but no one was taking time to sit at any of the small tables. Morning rush hour on a Friday meant it was grab and go. When Patrick reached the counter, the woman taking his order didn’t look up from the iPad doubling as the register.

“Whaddya want?” she asked.

“Large coffee with two shots of espresso and an everything bagel,” Patrick said. He looked over his shoulder at Jono. “What do you want?”

“Double espresso and two chocolate croissants.”

The woman punched in his order on the screen. “For here or to go?”

Patrick dug out his wallet. “For here, but make the drinks to go.”

He paid with his card, getting an emailed receipt for reimbursement purposes, then stepped aside to wait for their order. When it came, their drinks were in paper to-go cups, though they’d served Jono’s free shot of sparkling water to go with his espresso as a palate cleanser in a small glass. Their food was in small plastic baskets, and they carried everything over to the empty table in the corner.

Patrick sat down with his food and coffee, freeing up one hand long enough to cast a silence ward. He discreetly drew the sigil on the underside of the table, pushing his magic through the air around them.

“Sweet tooth?” Patrick asked, eyeing Jono’s breakfast.

“I’m usually asleep right now. Figured I could use the sugar,” Jono said.

Patrick took a sip of his coffee, then another. The caffeine went a long way toward making him slightly less homicidal. “How long?”

“How long have I been a bartender?”

Patrick gestured with his coffee cup at Jono’s face. “Since you were infected.”

The espresso cup stilled halfway to Jono’s mouth. “Bit of a personal question, innit?”

“I warded our area. No one can hear us.” At Jono’s disbelieving look, Patrick craned his head around and yelled, “Hey!”

No one paid them any attention. Patrick picked up half his bagel and took a bite, eyeing Jono expectantly.

“Magic doesn’t guarantee privacy,” Jono replied.

“Gets pretty close. You’re god pack, even if you weren’t acting in that capacity at the PCB last night. You lost the right to privacy the second your eyes changed color. I know paperwork for immigration anywhere sucks, but it’s especially crappy for those with your kind of ties to the preternatural world. Did Marek pull strings to bring you over?”

“What makes you think it was Marek?”

“What he said last night about the reason you’re here. If it’s this case, and if his patrons want me to keep an eye on you, I need some background on you.”

“Why don’t you run one of your agency’s fancy background checks and find out on your own?”

“You’re sitting right in front of me, and we’re stuck together for who knows how long because immortals don’t know when to mind their own fucking business. This way is quicker, but only if you talk.”

“I’ll talk if you will.”

“So long as you don’t ask me about anything classified, then sure,” Patrick replied blandly.

Which was, oh, nearly his entire life.

Jono drank down his double espresso in one long, searing gulp before following it up with the sparkling water. He set the glass down with a sigh. “I got infected when I was seventeen. I’m thirty now. Bad blood transfusion at a hospital after a car accident on the M1 while coming back from hols. The mistake shouldn’t have happened.”

“No shit,” Patrick said. “Blood is supposed to be screened.”

Jono’s lip curled. “Their supplier was a bit dodgy. Turns out the company was doing a healthy side business with the Edgware Night Court.”

Patrick made a face. “Fucking vampires.”

“Too right. My mum and dad kicked me out after the whole mess even with the court case going on. Couldn’t stand having a bloody werewolf staying with them, and the Tottenham estate we lived in at the time almost rioted when I tried to come home. Never saw so much as a quid from the settlement either. Bunch of bollocks, that was.”

“Money is a great divider.”

Jono nodded agreement. “The London god pack allowed me to stay in their territory, but they never accepted me into their pack. I didn’t get on with the lot of them, and the alphas didn’t want me around after a while. When Marek showed up in London three years ago with a job offer to manage his friends’ bar, I didn’t say no. When I left, the London god pack exiled me.”

“Marek offered you a job and a place with the New York City god pack? Didn’t think he had that kind of pull.”

“No. The god pack here wanted nothing to do with me.”

Patrick stared at Jono, thinking about all the ways rival god packs could make life a living hell for the citizens of the cities they claimed. “And they haven’t run you out of town yet?”

“Marek won’t let them.”

“More like the fucking Fates won’t let them,” Patrick muttered.

Jono shrugged expansively at that. “I’m here, even if Estelle and Youssef wish I weren’t. I don’t care much for the way they do business with the packs under their protection, but it’s not my place to argue.”

Patrick snorted, gulping down a mouthful of coffee. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s willing to be walked over.”

“Yes, well, I’m an independent. Can’t form a pack because that was part of the agreement I made with the god pack here, and it’d be a sodding territory fight if I tried. So I don’t.”

Independent werecreatures were people who either hadn’t found the right fit in a pack yet, or they’d been exiled from ones who wanted nothing to do with them anymore. Independents were the least powerful in any territory werecreatures held beneath the watchful eyes of their local god pack. It was a lonely sort of existence.

That Jono, a god pack alpha, had yet to form his own pack when his instincts had to be screaming at him to do so, made Patrick question just what future the Fates had seen for the Brit.

“What about you?” Jono asked, forcefully steering the conversation away from himself.

Patrick took another bite of his bagel. “What about me?”

“Nah, Pat. Don’t be like that. Fair’s fair. You asked, I answered. Now it’s your turn. How long have you been with the SOA?”

Patrick wasn’t fond of nicknames outside the Hellraisers, his old Special Operations Forces team with a preternatural bent to it. Right now, he didn’t feel like arguing with Jono about it. At least it was better than Pattycakes.

“Three years,” Patrick said, because that was technically public record and it wasn’t a lie.

“And before that?”

“Classified.”

“Bollocks.”

Patrick slouched in his chair and shook his head. “Nope.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“Does it smell like I’m joking?”

“I can’t smell a bloody thing about you,” Jono said, sounding deeply annoyed about that fact.

Patrick drained his coffee before getting to his feet, leaning across the table a little. “Good.”

He could see the brightness of Jono’s eyes, even through the dark sunglasses. Jono glared at him but didn’t demand answers Patrick wouldn’t—and in some cases, couldn’t—give. Instead, he followed Patrick out of the little coffee shop. They headed to where Patrick had parked the car on the street and got in. Patrick let Jono mess with the radio until he found a station playing alternative music in between what felt like thirty minutes of commercials and radio DJ conversation. Patrick hadn’t splurged for satellite radio when he got the rental, and he wasn’t going to drain his phone battery to use Spotify.

“I’m not taking you into the SOA building,” Patrick said when the GPS on his phone showed they were halfway there. “You can wait for me at the Starbucks a block away.”

“What am I? Your dirty little secret?” Jono asked, sounding surprisingly not bitter.

Patrick jerked the steering wheel to the left and cut off a taxi so he didn’t get stuck behind a bus. He ignored the loud sound of an aggressively honked horn behind them. “No. The agency office here doesn’t need to know about you. It’s not their business what a seer dictates me to do.”

“You work for the Supernatural Operations Agency. How is Marek’s vision not their business?”

“It’s not,” Patrick said cuttingly.

Jono dropped the subject, but the tense silence from his side of the car didn’t go away. When Patrick pulled over quickly in a bus stop zone near the Starbucks, Jono didn’t immediately get out.

“I’m supposed to stay with you,” he said.

“If a soultaker eats its way through the veil in the middle of an SOA building, it won’t just have to deal with me, but everyone else who wears the badge and is magically inclined.”

“And if it comes after me?”

“Run.”

Jono shook his head before getting out of the car. “In that case, I could’ve had a lie-in back at your flat.”

The car door slammed shut with enough force to shake the entire vehicle. Patrick watched Jono walk away for a few seconds, gaze lingering on his ass, before he hit the gas pedal again and pulled into traffic.

It didn’t take long to reach the SOA building. This time he parked in the adjacent garage and went inside, getting cleared by security through both machine and magical means. Patrick was waved over to the front desk beyond the security gates. It was manned by a couple of secretarial staff members who handled the flow of visitors who weren’t employed by the federal government and those just passing through.

“I’m here to see Rachel Andrita,” Patrick said in greeting.

The woman didn’t look away from her computer screen. “ID, please.”

Patrick handed over his badge in the folded wallet. Her eyes flicked from the picture on his ID card and agent number on the metal badge itself to his face twice before she seemed satisfied. “Thirtieth floor. Her assistant will be waiting to receive you.”

Patrick took the designated elevator up with a group of people in suits and skirt ensembles, all of them barely giving him a second glance. Several stops later, Patrick got off on the thirtieth floor and made his way to Rachel’s corner office after getting directions from the floor receptionist. A woman in her early thirties was sitting outside Rachel’s corner office at a desk that was surprisingly clear of clutter, typing away on a keyboard with fast strokes and wearing a hands-free phone headset.

“Sit,” she said, without looking up. “Ms. Andrita knows you’re here.”

Patrick arched an eyebrow at the curtness but didn’t argue. If this woman was anything like Brianna, Setsuna’s executive assistant, she wouldn’t let anyone into her boss’ inner sanctum without permission no matter their status. So he took a seat outside on a chair and waited.

At exactly nine o’clock, Rachel’s assistant got up to open the office door. “She’ll see you now.”

Patrick stood up and went to meet the SOA’s Special Agent in Charge of New York City.

The corner office overlooked the street instead of the side of a neighboring building. The wards wrapped around the space reminded him of the ones in Casale’s office, only stronger. Patrick cased the room automatically, checking out the commendations and degrees hanging on the wall and the bookshelves that actually held books rather than decorative knickknacks.

The space had that monotone feel to it all the government alphabet agencies seemed to have these days: all the furniture matched in dull colors, walls were painted white or beige, and halogen lighting made people’s eyes twitch by the end of the workday. Not a place Patrick wanted to work.

Rachel didn’t stand up or offer her hand in greeting when Patrick approached her desk. She merely took in his appearance with cool brown eyes. “Your outfit leaves something to be desired.”

“The director has never had a problem with how I dress for the field, ma’am,” Patrick replied mildly.

Since she hadn’t offered him a seat, he took one anyway. The narrow-eyed look she shot him told Patrick this meeting was going to go terribly.

Fucking politics, man.

Rachel leaned forward in her leather seat, all business. Her honey-blonde hair was pinned away from her face in a loose chignon that brushed the collar of her silk blouse. In her midforties, but looking at least ten years younger, Rachel was a career-oriented witch who had made climbing the SOA ranks her life’s goal. That she wasn’t yet riding a desk in DC with a title that carried more weight didn’t mean she wasn’t angling for a promotion.

Patrick knew this case would look good on her resume, if only it had stayed in her office. So he wasn’t surprised when the first thing Rachel addressed was the transfer.

“I understand Director Abuku felt it necessary to send someone from the Rapid Response Division, but this case has spanned six months already, and the PCB was mostly handling it with our help. I’ll be frank, Collins. I really don’t think your presence is necessary, and I informed the director as such last night,” Rachel said.

“I’m sure the director took your suggestion under advisement,” Patrick replied in the neutral voice he’d perfected in the military when dealing with incompetent—from his perspective—superior officers.

“I understand there was an altercation at a bar last night. What happened?”

“I really can’t say, ma’am.”

Rachel tapped her perfectly manicured fingernails against the hard oak of her desk. “That answer is unacceptable. We’re all on the same team here, Collins.”

“It’s an active investigation, and I report to the director, not to you. If you want to be read into the case going forward, you’ll need clearance from Director Abuku.”

Rachel didn’t show her irritation about her request being denied, a testament to her ability to read a room. Patrick wondered why a SAIC was so interested in a case formally assigned to a lower-level witch that Rachel hadn’t looked twice at. Only when it got taken out of her hands, metaphorically speaking, did she start to raise a fuss.

“I understand Chief Casale had plans to seek answers from a seer. Has that meeting occurred yet?”

Warning bells rang loud and clear through Patrick’s mind at that question. As far as he knew, Casale’s meeting with Marek hadn’t been telegraphed.

So he lied.

“I’m not sure.”

“We both know the bar you were at last night is affiliated with Marek Taylor, a seer the government keeps tabs on. Did he have a vision or not?” Rachel asked.

“Again, you’ll need to discuss that with the director.”

Rachel sat back and touched a few keys on her keyboard, staring at her monitor. “If the City is willing to spend that much money on a seer, then I really think my office should be more thoroughly involved. When this is over, you’ll be on your way again and we agents here in New York City will be left to pick up the pieces. You have a tendency toward collateral damage in the field. I’m not comfortable having you be my office’s representative. I want to assign you a partner.”

Patrick fought back a grimace. “No.”

“Excuse me?” Rachel said sharply.

“Ma’am, the case is no longer under the purview of your office. It’s now being handled through DC, which means it’s mine. I don’t do partners, and you don’t have the authority to change the parameters of how I run things.”

“I see.” Rachel clasped her hands together over the desk and stared him down. “Is stonewalling how you normally run things? Is that standard operating procedure for your division?”

Patrick didn’t move an inch under her gaze. “This isn’t stonewalling. This is me following my orders, which come from the director we both serve under. If you have a problem with that, take it up with her.”

The impasse lasted at least a minute before Rachel broke the staring contest with a ploy at faux concern. “Every field agent is required to have a partner. The fact that you don’t is worrisome.”

“I don’t need one.”

Patrick could be a team player and had been in the Mage Corps, surrounded by people who’d been trained like he had been to deal with magic and demons in a war zone. He missed his old team more than his therapist knew, but those who were left were running dark right now and he hadn’t heard from them in months. Coming into the SOA when initially recruited, he’d tried working with a partner or two those first weeks after clawing his way out of the bottom of a bottle and suicidal thoughts.

It didn’t end well.

Setsuna had been the one to transfer his last partner and affirm his solo status in the records. Patrick worked his cases alone because of the gods he could never outrun. He didn’t need to subject someone else to his shitty life.

“I’ll bring up my concern with the director again. I want to be kept apprised of any new leads in the case as they come up,” Rachel said.

“I’ll keep that request in mind.”

The faint tic at the corner of Rachel’s mouth told him she knew he was only spouting lip service. “We’ll talk later, Collins. This meeting is over.”

Patrick tipped his head her way. “Ma’am.”

He left her office feeling like he had a target on his back. Patrick couldn’t get out of the building and to his car fast enough. Throwing himself behind the steering wheel, he slapped his hand against the roof of the car, warding the vehicle for silence despite the sting that came with using his magic right now.

He pulled out his phone and unlocked it, swiping into his contacts. His thumb hovered over Setsuna’s name before he sighed and tapped back to the keypad. Patrick entered a string of numbers instead, letting the call ring through three times before hanging up. He repeated that two more times before waiting thirty seconds and calling once more.

Setsuna picked up on the first ring.

“Line and location are secure” were the first words out of her mouth.

“I got voluntold to keep Rachel updated on the case,” Patrick said.

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t planning on it before, and I’m definitely not planning on it now. What is going on, Setsuna?”

“I wanted you to form your own opinion without mine influencing yours.”

Patrick froze, staring at the empty seats in the car parked nose to nose with his. It felt like someone had poured ice water down his spine. “You don’t trust her.”

“I don’t trust a lot of people, and we are still cleaning house.”

“You’ve been cleaning house since I was a child.”

“You know why.”

Patrick swore, closing his eyes. Yeah, he did, and that was the problem. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. “You think Rachel belongs to the Dominion Sect.”

“I think this case has been purposefully delayed from reaching my desk for six months. It was luck the DC office received the appeal from the New York City PCB at all.”

Patrick thought about Marek and his inability to have clear visions at the moment. He thought about the Fates who saw fit to saddle Patrick with a werewolf. He thought about the signs carved on the dead, Hermes’ sinister warning, and the too-sharp attention of a witch who should have been on their side.

The next words out of his mouth felt like glass, slicing deep. “You think it’s Ethan.”

Setsuna’s silence spoke volumes.

The Dominion Sect had gone by many names throughout the centuries, but their number one priority always remained the same: the subjugation of the gods and removal of the veil between worlds. Rogue magic users of every creed who belonged to the shadowy group all lived double lives, as did their many human followers. Ferreting any of them out was difficult. The higher-ups rarely made mistakes, but when they did, those mistakes were brutal for everyone involved.

Patrick’s mother had never really known the true nature of the family she married into. That blindness cost Clara Patterson her life when Patrick was eight years old and Ethan Greene had murdered her.

It cost Patrick more.

He leaned over the front-seat divider and opened the glove compartment, pulling out the pack of cigarettes he’d stashed there yesterday. Screw the no smoking policy on the rental; he’d pay for the damn cleaning fee.

Prying a cigarette out with his teeth, he lit the end with a bit of mage fire burning from his fingertip. He stuck the key in the ignition and turned it just enough to get power so he could crack the window open and flick ash through that thin gap.

“Handle this case how you normally would,” Setsuna finally said, breaking the silence after he’d smoked down half his cigarette. “I’ll send Rachel another email about her interference.”

“Make it a phone call,” Patrick said.

“It will be handled.”

His lip curled at that, knowing full well how Setsuna handled shit like this—by sending Patrick in. Only this time, she couldn’t use him. “And my backup?”

“On their way.”

“Who’s coming?”

Setsuna hung up without answering. Patrick wondered just who she’d chosen to send as help if she wouldn’t risk saying their names out loud, even on a burner phone. None of the choices he could think of were good ones.

“I hear smoking will kill you.”

Patrick had a mageglobe in hand, burning with raw magic, before his brain recognized the bored sound of Hermes’ voice coming from the passenger seat.

“God fucking damn it,” Patrick ground out, glaring at the immortal. “Do you really have to keep showing up like this?”

“Aww, Pattycakes. Did I scare you?” Hermes drawled, a nasty smirk on his mouth. “You should watch your back.”

Patrick snuffed out his mageglobe and stuck his cigarette back between his lips, drawing in a lungful of smoke. “You got anything worthwhile to tell me, or did you just show up to mock me because you’re bored?”

Hermes lifted one foot and put it on the dash, his dirty Doc Martens scuffing up the black interior. His knee poked out of the hole in his black skinny jeans, showing off a scab or two. “I have a message for you.”

“Next time, why don’t you just call?”

“So you can ignore me? Where’s the fun in that, Pattycakes?”

Patrick arched an eyebrow, as if the answer wasn’t obvious. “What do you want?”

Hermes’ hand darted out cat-quick, plucking the nearly finished cigarette out of Patrick’s mouth. He slipped it between his own lips, breathing in deep to burn it down to the filter. Smoke drifted out of his nose and from between his teeth. Hermes stubbed it out on the console between them, smearing ash around the cup holder.

“Isadora Cirillo wants to meet with you. Make time for her,” Hermes told him.

“How do you know the missing hedge fund manager’s wife?”

Hermes’ gold-brown eyes turned molten. “How do you think?”

The immortal disappeared, leaving only smoke behind. Patrick stared at the empty passenger seat, Hermes’ words ringing in his ears, the threat unmistakable.

“Fucking gods and their fucking games,” Patrick muttered, reaching for his pack of cigarettes again.

One of these days, they’d be the death of him.