Which meant they’d lost hours since their arrival at Ginnungagap on Thursday night. Traveling to the other side of the veil was worse than traveling over the International Date Line in terms of losing time.
Jono glanced around the VIP area, noticing the vampires from the start of their meeting were no longer around. He pulled out his mobile to check the time, seeing that it was past sunrise by a good twenty minutes. Lucien was a daywalker though, one of the few vampires who could exist in sunlight without being killed. Jono doubted he’d have a difficult time getting back to wherever his Night Court called home.
“The bargain was made,” Lucien said, glaring at him.
“You’ll acknowledge our god pack?” Jono asked.
“As long as you pray to Ashanti.”
“Keep your word and we’ll keep ours.”
“Covens pray to their chosen gods to keep them alive. You will be no different in your actions, but I’ll know if you renege on your promise.”
Jono narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t Ashanti’s priest.”
Lucien’s smile was a hint of the monster he was in human form. “I am her child. Now get the fuck out of my club.”
Sage pushed gently at his arm, and Jono took the hint for what it was. He turned around, listening as Emma and Leon fell into step behind him. The only people left in the club were human servants, and none of them cared about their passage out of Ginnungagap.
Jono shivered as he stepped outside, less from the cold and more from the feel of power against his skin as they crossed the threshold of the building and what lived in its walls.
“Nothing left to hide, eh?” Emma said in a low, angry voice before stalking toward her car.
Jono winced, not knowing where to start when it came to the god in his soul. “Em.”
“Save it. Let’s just get you back home.”
That she was still going to escort him back to the flat and stay there, despite how angry she sounded and smelled, left Jono feeling absolutely horrid.
“I really bollocksed that up, didn’t I?” Jono asked once he and Sage were in the Mustang.
“If you’re talking about the bargain with Lucien? You were more successful than Patrick would’ve been. If you’re talking about keeping secrets from your friends? It could’ve gone better,” Sage said in a neutral voice.
Lawyers never did sugarcoat anything these days. Jono rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “Bloody hell.”
Sage glanced over at him before refocusing on the road. “When are we telling Patrick about this?”
“When he gets back.”
The faint unease that rolled through him made Jono shift in his seat. Fenrir’s worry was difficult to parse.
The Æsir are restless.
Jono grimaced. “Maybe sooner.”
He hoped Patrick was okay in Chicago.
9
“I can’t believe the SAIC signed off on this,” Kelly said as she shut the car door behind her.
Patrick squinted at her over the rims of his aviator sunglasses. “Something interesting came up the other day.”
Benjamin eyed him dubiously as he and his partner stepped onto the icy sidewalk. “Funny how that happened the second you arrived in Chicago.”
Patrick shrugged, not in the mood to explain himself on a cold and windy late Friday morning. He’d spent ten hours yesterday on conference calls with Setsuna and the Illinois State Attorney General’s office arguing about being allowed to interview Dean Westberg. His explanation to Setsuna about immortal interference in the campaign was enough to get her to listen, but coming up with a plausible excuse for the local government offices spearheading the Westberg investigation was a different problem.
Blaming the Dominion Sect seemed like the best way to circumvent the god issue. It wasn’t as if Patrick would be lying. He’d just have to figure out a way to make that connection without perjuring himself later on.
“The media is going to have a field day once word gets out about our visit. That might put the people he’s targeting at risk,” Kelly said.
“Might isn’t a sure bet. Now come on. The element of surprise is always the best weapon against politicians,” Patrick replied.
The campaign headquarters for the mayoral candidate was on the third floor of an office building downtown. The location told Patrick that Dean had money to burn because no one sane rented downtown office space in any city on a short-term lease. The rent was always astronomical, but maybe it was a subtle threat to his fellow candidates—a pointed hint about his deep pockets.
They showed their badges to the security guard at the front desk to get access to the elevator. When they arrived in the campaign space, they were greeted by curious looks from the people who were hard at work manning phones for text messaging outreach.
Most of the people there were either college students probably working around their class schedules or older people volunteering on their days off. All of them were mundane humans, which wasn’t surprising considering Westberg’s own preferences.
Kristen Lief, Westberg’s campaign manager, stepped out of an office with glass walls. She came their way with a polite smile on her face that Patrick didn’t trust at all. He tried to see her aura, but it was locked down tight, nothing but human in the faint glow that surrounded her before he quit looking.
She appeared human this time, but Patrick doubted Wade had been wrong in his assessment. Whatever immortal Patrick was dealing with, she was good at blending in as human.
“Were you that impressed at brunch the other day? Here to volunteer for the campaign?” Kristen asked.
Patrick pulled his badge with ID out of his pocket and flipped open the thin leather wallet so she could see it. “Actually, we’re from the SOA. We’d like to speak with Mr. Westberg.”
Kristen’s smile became tacked on. “I’m sorry, but he’s currently unavailable.”
Patrick peered over her shoulder at the other, bigger office, where the candidate in question was talking on the phone. “Looks available to me.”
Patrick walked past her, and when Kristen would’ve tried to get in his way, Kelly stepped forward to distract her.
“Yeah, let’s not do that,” Kelly said. “How about you and I have a talk?”
Patrick could feel the immortal’s eyes boring into his back, and the intense attention made his shoulders tighten. He couldn’t help letting his hand stray toward the hilt of his dagger in a need for security.
Pushing open the office door without knocking, Patrick watched as Westberg looked away from his laptop, still talking on the phone. Patrick silently held up his badge again, and Westberg didn’t miss a beat.
“You know what? Something just came up and I’ll need to call you back. No, nothing terrible. Kristen just needs me for something. It’s probably polling results again. We’ll talk later. I’ll see you at the fundraiser dinner if we don’t,” Westberg said before ending the call. The candidate stared at Patrick. “Can I help you?”
“Special Agent Patrick Collins of the SOA. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” Patrick said. He didn’t drop his shields, but no recognition sparked through his magic. Westberg felt human to his senses.
“Now’s really not a good time. I was just about to leave for lunch with my wife.”
“You can be late.”
Westberg eyed him with an inscrutable look before his expression cleared, replaced with a politician’s smile. His entire demeanor seemed to change, becoming more welcoming when Patrick knew no one ever welcomed government interference.
“Well, if it can’t wait, please, take a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No,” Patrick said, declining both the drink offer and a seat. “I understand you’re the owner of about a dozen or so residential properties in Chicago.”
“I disclosed my taxes when I filed my candidacy paperwork. All of my income for the past ten years is available. You didn’t need to pay a visit to confirm that information. I haven’t hidden anything.”
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“You have some payment irregularities in your records.”
“If that were the case, I’d expect the IRS to come calling, not the SOA.”
“Yeah, they’d come if it was about money.”
“Then why are you here?”
Patrick knew from the case records that deposition subpoenas had been issued to the property management company that handled Westberg’s real estate empire and collected rent from tenants. As with any case, following the money was the first step, and it had brought Patrick here.
“The SOA thinks someone in your personal orbit might be compromised,” Patrick said easily enough. “Your ambitions make you a target for certain kinds of people in the world.”
“The wrong people, I’m guessing?”
“In certain eyes, yes. We believe the Dominion Sect may be targeting you.”
Westberg didn’t even blink. “Then I must be leading in the polls if they believe I’m a threat. Unlike that group, I’m for everyone to have a right to freely access their magic.”
Patrick didn’t comment on that. “Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you?”
Westberg laughed as he got to his feet. “Special Agent Collins, I’m running for mayor of Chicago. There will always be people who will hold a grudge against me.”
“Ones who work for you specifically?”
“I’m sorry, if you want any more information, you’ll need to speak to my lawyer.”
Patrick wasn’t surprised by that comeback. “We’re just having a friendly chat, Mr. Westberg.”
“Nothing that comes out of your agency is friendly.”
“If that’s how you feel, I’ll take your lawyer’s number.”
“DeLucca & Associates. Ask for Marcello.”
Before Patrick could respond, the office door opened and a statuesque woman wearing a fur coat came inside. She blinked large blue eyes at them, her light brown hair swept back in a loose chignon. Her face lacked wrinkles and expression lines, probably from an overabundance of Botox. The square-cut emerald ring on her left hand was large enough it almost reached her second knuckle. Patrick’s magic remained quiet at her arrival, no recognition searing through his soul.
“Darling, we’ll be late for our reservations,” the woman said.
“Of course, Phoebe.” Westberg smiled politely at Patrick as he came around the desk, invading his personal space. “I hope that will be all, Special Agent Collins?”
Patrick tilted his head back to look the other man in the eye. “Aksel Sigfodr says hello.”
The only sign of Westberg’s discomfort was the faintest tightening of his jaw. Patrick only saw it because he was looking. “Did he? And how is Mr. Sigfodr?”
“Happy you’ve paid his tithes. I’m sure your fundraiser dinner this weekend will do well.”
Patrick didn’t wait for a response, merely turned on his feet and left the office. Phoebe looked down her nose at him as he left, ever the loyal politician’s wife in the face of a threat to her husband. Patrick walked through the campaign work room, waving at Kelly and Benjamin, who were still engaged in a war of words with Kristen. The pair peeled away from her, the campaign manager seemingly glad to be rid of them.
“That was quick,” Kelly said in a low voice as they waited for the elevator.
“He lawyered up,” Patrick said.
“We could’ve told you that instead of wasting a trip down here and tipping our hand more than strictly necessary that he’s being targeted. Politicians of any party never like the optics of a federal visit.”
Patrick didn’t say anything to that accusation. The three of them rode the elevator back down to the lobby in silence. Kelly and Benjamin headed for their unmarked car without a goodbye. Patrick headed for his SUV, ducking his head against the wind. The air was sharp and cold when he breathed, burning the inside of his nose with every breath. The weather had been strange ever since his lunch meeting with Odin, and Patrick didn’t know what to make of that.
Unlike New York City, Chicago didn’t have a nexus buried far beneath the city’s foundation. The closest one was found beneath the waters of Lake Michigan, a possible contributing factor to all the legends about the monsters that dwelled within the fresh water.
Most people forgot that the lake was the monster. Sometimes nature was stranger and more terrifying than any story humans could tell.
Patrick drove away from the campaign headquarters. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel before pulling out his phone and calling Jono. He hadn’t set the rental for hands-free, and so kept the phone pressed to his ear while keeping both eyes on the road.
“Hey,” Jono said through a yawn when he picked up.
“Hey,” Patrick replied. “Did I wake you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I can let you go back to sleep.”
“I like listening to your voice more. What’s going on?”
“Still working the case. Hitting some dead ends, but the place I’m going to tonight might give me more information.”
“Yeah? That’s good, innit?”
“Maybe.” Patrick sighed tiredly. “How’s everything in New York?”
“You know, the usual.”
“I tried calling you last night, but you never picked up. Busy night at the bar?”
Jono yawned again, the sound crackling through the speaker. “It was late when I finally saw your missed calls. I didn’t want to wake you, so I never rang back.”
“I wouldn’t have minded if you had. Have I mentioned lately how much I hate hotel rooms now?”
“Because you’re sharing one with Wade?”
“Aside from that.”
“I miss you, too, love,” Jono said quietly.
Patrick’s shoulders loosened a little at that confession. It always left a warm feeling in his chest knowing who he had waiting for him when he finished a case. “I know.”
“Finish your case so you can come home.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re driving, so I’m going to let you go. Ring me later, yeah?”
“Will do.”
Patrick ended the call and dropped his phone in the cupholder in the console between the front seats. As frustrating as each passing day in Chicago was becoming, talking to Jono always put him in a better mood.
Eiketre was located in Andersonville, in the North Side of Chicago. Built on a narrow street facing the fenced-off Rosehill Cemetery, the bar wasn’t near any residential buildings, which was probably a good thing. The raucous noise could be heard even through the closed windows. An empty patio beneath a snow-coated pergola indicated tables were probably in use during the summer, but they’d been stored for the winter. Strangely blooming vines twined through the low iron fence surrounding the front patio area.
The front of the building was covered with weathered wooden boards, giving it a rustic look. The bar’s name was carved into one such panel over the door, the tiny designs surrounding the letters made up of intricate wards that were geared toward a healthy hearth and home. The bar was connected to an even larger building that looked as if it could have housed a small brewery.
Patrick tucked his keys into his jeans pocket and studied the exterior with a wary eye. Unlike with Westberg’s campaign manager, he could feel the presence of gods in this place like it was the only lighthouse in a storm.
“They aren’t subtle,” Patrick mused.
Wade hummed low in the back of his throat. “Am I allowed inside?”
“You don’t have to come with me.”
Wade shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders. “Not gonna let you face them alone.”
“Then come on.”
They passed through the open gate and headed for the front door, pushing it open. A blast of warm air hit them in the face, and Patrick immediately started sweating from the heat. The sudden change in temperature didn’t seem to bother Wade.
A very tall, very broad man sporting blond
hair and a beard sat on a stool just past the door, blocking the entrance to the bar itself. He looked up from his phone, gaze skipping from Patrick to Wade. He shook his head. “No one under twenty-one allowed.”
“He’s with me,” Patrick said.
“That’s great and all, but you’ll need to go somewhere else.”
Patrick pulled out his badge and flipped it open. “He’s with me.”
The man squinted at the ID and SOA seal printed on it before grimacing. “Right. Is this an official visit?”
Patrick put his badge away, eyeing the leather corded necklace the man wore with the metal hammer pendant hanging from it. “We were told to speak to the owner.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. “He’s working the bar tonight.”
Patrick nodded, then gestured for Wade to follow him into the crowd. “Keep close.”
Wade’s hand latched onto his belt from behind. “Like I’m going anywhere.”
“And keep your hands to yourself.”
“Uh, sure.”
Patrick didn’t hold out any hope that Wade’s sticky fingers wouldn’t come away with other people’s belongings, but now wasn’t the time to argue. Getting through the Friday night crowd was an effort in elbow pushing. The bar was packed, the noise level deafening, and Patrick hated being surrounded by people he didn’t know and couldn’t trust.
Inside, the bar was warmly lit, the walls covered in the same wood paneling as outside. Runes were carved into the walls around bleached trophy skulls, many with horns, some without. Not all of the skulls were of native animals, judging by their size and shape. Some of them looked human-shaped, if a little misshapen, which was unsettling.
If you took away the general crowd and kept only the worshippers, the place could have doubled as an altar of sorts for the god pouring beer and talking loudly with the regulars drinking their weight in golden mead.
Thor was easily the tallest man in the room, with broad shoulders and muscled arms he showed off in a too-tight T-shirt, apparently unbothered by the winter weather outside. His pale red hair looked almost blond in the light. It fell loose past his shoulders in a messy tangle of waves, blending into the thick beard he sported that was a few shades darker. He laughed with his whole body in a way that was welcoming to his patrons, and the friendly smile on his face never disappeared.
A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound Book 4) Page 13