Ten minutes later, Wade returned, holding a paper bag that already had bright yellow mustard staining the sides. He had a half-eaten hot dog in one hand and looked pleased with himself as he took another bite, losing a bit of neon green relish off the side. Luckily, it fell into the paper wrapper the hot dog rested on and not the floor.
“Happy now?” Patrick asked as he grabbed the handles of both their carry-ons and started walking.
“I got six, so yeah.”
“Consider that your dinner.”
“What? No! I’m still getting room service.”
“The government won’t pay for it.”
“You can pay for it.”
Patrick snorted. “No, I won’t.”
“So does that mean I’m getting my own room?”
“No. You’re staying with me.”
“Then I’m getting room service.”
Patrick quit arguing with Wade in favor of getting out of O’Hare and to the rental car location, because trying to win a fight with Wade over food was a losing battle. The sooner they got to the hotel, the quicker they could eat and sleep.
He followed the signs to baggage claim, peeling off toward the exit once they were past security. The second they stepped outside on the lower level, icy cold wind hit him in the face. Patrick winced, while Wade just hunched over his hot dog, eating faster, the jacket he was supposed to be wearing tied around his waist.
“It’s cold,” Wade muttered around a bite.
“Of course it’s cold. It’s still winter,” Patrick said.
“No, I mean, my hot dog is cold now.”
“Do not warm it up with your fire breath.”
Wade rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
Patrick scanned the signs for the shuttle bus area, finding it a few seconds later and leading Wade over to it. They didn’t have to wait long for the bus to come, though the bundled-up driver did give Wade a stern look when they boarded.
“Don’t make a mess,” the driver said.
“I won’t,” Wade said around a mouthful of hot dog. “These are good. Not gonna waste them.”
Patrick made a face. “Chew with your mouth shut.”
Wade made a point of chewing with his mouth open wide for a few more bites before finding his manners again. Patrick sighed heavily. He could see how this trip was going to go, judging by Wade’s attitude.
The drive to the rental car facility didn’t take long. Patrick didn’t have to deal with the line at the desk due to the SOA’s membership with the rental car company. They followed the signs to Pick Up for the SUV Patrick had reserved. He opened the car door, finding the key in the ignition with the engine off.
Wade chucked their luggage and backpacks into the trunk once Patrick unlocked the doors. Then he climbed into the front seat and pulled out another hot dog while Patrick adjusted all the mirrors before starting the engine and turning on the heater. He took a minute to plug the downtown Marriott hotel address into his GPS app before texting Jono.
On the way to the hotel.
Jono’s response came less than thirty seconds later. Get some rest. Ring me in the morning.
They’d promised daily check-ins, and Patrick was going to try to keep to that. Considering the extra formalities governing his arrival in Chicago, Patrick knew he couldn’t afford to keep anything from Jono, not if it would put their already tenuous pack position in more trouble.
They got on the road. The ride to downtown Chicago wasn’t terrible, taking around forty minutes. Wade finished the last of his hot dogs fairly quick, then pulled out his phone and started playing a game on it. By the time they turned onto North Michigan Avenue, Patrick was ready to crawl into bed. It’d been a long Monday, and traveling with a teenager made him wistful of the days he used to travel alone.
When they finally pulled up in front of the Marriott, the doorman and a valet worker approached almost immediately.
“Valet parking?” the valet asked.
“Yeah,” Patrick replied.
Wade handled getting their luggage out of the SUV while Patrick agreed to the daily rate for off-site parking and took the valet ticket before handing over the car keys. Then he and Wade headed for the entrance to the hotel.
Warm air greeted them in a blast once they stepped inside, and Patrick sighed in relief as he looked around. The lobby reminded Patrick of a poor man’s Las Vegas casino, but the décor was less of a problem than the recognition that spiked through his magic.
Patrick sucked air through his teeth and didn’t get his shields tightened down in time to hide. He hadn’t expected to have to deal with werecreatures within an hour and a half of getting off the plane. Patrick watched as one of the front desk clerks’ heads snapped around, his attention zeroing in on them despite the handful of other people scattered around the lobby, seated on chairs and couches.
“Ohhh,” Wade said, drawing out the word. “Shit.”
He was smart enough not to say anything else, sticking close to Patrick’s side as they approached the front desk. The werecreature in a suit waved off his coworker so that he could be the one to help them.
“Checking in?” the man asked politely. He was taller than Patrick, of Indian descent, and Sikh, judging by his dastaar. The name tag pinned to his suit said Ekam. His eyes were a dark brown, which meant he wasn’t god pack. Patrick didn’t know what kind of werecreature Ekam was, and he knew better than to ask.
“Yeah. One room, two double beds if you have it available. Reservation is under Collins. I can give you the confirmation number if you need it,” Patrick said, pulling out his phone.
The man nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on the computer screen. He stopped typing a couple of seconds later, gaze flicking back to Patrick and staying riveted to his face. “Patrick Collins?”
Ekam said his name with a weight to the syllables that Patrick didn’t like. It made him wonder just how much of the shit going down in New York lately had traveled outside their territory borders. “Yeah. Special Agent Patrick Collins.”
Since he knew the guy would be asking for ID, Patrick pulled out his SOA badge from his inner jacket pocket, flipping it open for Ekam to see. The other man’s eyes moved from the badge to Patrick’s face.
“Out of New York?”
“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.
“Looks fine on paper. What’s he hiding underneath?” Patrick asked.
“This is Chicago. You want to do politics here at any level, you have to kiss some rings to do it,” Kelly said.
“Digging up dirt is an Olympic sport in this city. Westberg came to our attention when a criminal informant let us know he was taking rent payments from tenants at some of his slum properties with bits of people’s souls instead of money,” Benjamin said.
Patrick kept his eyes on the file and forced himself not to react to that news. He’d known there was a reason Setsuna had given him this case as cover for searching for the Morrígan’s staff, but he’d had no idea it had to do with criminal actions against a person’s soul. That classified information hadn’t been included in the case file sent over through electronic means, encrypted or otherwise.
“Do you have proof?” Patrick wanted to know.
“Not enough to charge him with anything. Our criminal informant isn’t missing parts of their soul, but the people we’ve tried to interview haven’t been willing to talk. We can’t read their auras without their permission, a warrant, or a subpoena. Westberg has to know we’re investigating him because subpoenas have gone out to third parties and he’s hired lawyers, but the attorney general’s office doesn’t want to tip their hand too much. We’re being as careful as we can not to draw attention until we have an airtight case, and Westberg doesn’t want this in the news with the election so close, so he’s not talking,” Kelly said.
Patrick drummed his fingers against the table for a few seconds. “Housing is difficult to come by if you don’t make a living wage. Desperate people do desperate things, but selling your soul is pretty far out there. I find it strange Westberg would make that a requirement for his tenants when he doesn’t personally care for magic and is in the middle of a mayoral campaign that’s just a stepping stone to a Senate run once his term is over if he wins.”
“Winter here is brutal. It’s not surprising people wouldn’t want to lose their home, with nowhere to go, when the temperature is below freezing.”
She had a point. Patrick knew from personal, painful experience that the way to get someone to agree to a shitty proposition was to wait until they were backed into a corner with no other options available. Coercion wasn’t always done by force, but by the necessity of the person being asked to agree to the impossible.
“You said not enough proof, which means you have something.” Patrick looked up from the file to stare at the o
ther two agents. “What is it?”
Benjamin pointed at the left-hand side of the open file folder. “The pawnshop slip should be clipped in that stack. There’s only the one, and it’s a photo of it because the person in question wasn’t willing to hand it over, but her daughter convinced her to at least show us.”
Patrick flipped through the pages in question, sliding free the color copy of the pawnshop slip. The writing on it was faded, not because it was old, but because it was carbon copy. He didn’t even know people still used that form of record-keeping anymore.
The name printed and signed in shaky handwriting read Margaret Jones. The item being sold was listed as a favor, the cost set at to be determined. It was innocuous enough if one didn’t know the background details of the transaction.
People sold favors all the time. They were binding, like any promise—a valid contract the courts routinely upheld when challenged by people who regretted offering what they shouldn’t. Patrick pulled out his phone and took a picture of the pawnshop record number, as well as the address. When people sold things, the items in question were kept in a shop’s inventory as collateral until the person paid off their loan and retrieved it, or failed to do so and the item was put up for sale.
“Have you talked to the owner about this yet?” Patrick asked.
“Twice,” Benjamin said. “With no warrant, he wouldn’t give us a damn thing.”
Patrick stood and shoved his phone into his back pocket. “I’m going to pay him a visit.”
Kelly frowned at him. “Do you really think the third time will be the charm?”
“We’ll find out.”
“Good luck.”
She sounded like she didn’t believe Patrick would get far, but there was a reason Setsuna gave him the hard cases over the years. His record for closing out cases stood on its own.
Patrick left the SOA field office and crossed the street for the warded parking garage that belonged to the government. Patrick had parked the rental on the fifth level, and he half expected to be greeted by a god when he arrived, but the seats were all empty.
A Vigil in the Mourning Page 4