An Echo in the Sorrow (Soulbound Book 6) Page 2

  With everything going on right now, he wasn’t willing to make anything easy for the enemy. Hiding in plain sight was an ingrained habit after so many years of doing it, but that wasn’t a guarantee of safety.

  The summer crowds flocking to the Metropolitan Museum of Art were a mix of tourists and locals alike this time of the year. Patrick cut his way through them as he hurried down the sidewalk toward the front entrance of the grand building. The smell of hot dogs and pretzels wafted from the food carts situated on the sidewalk in front of the steps leading to the museum. It made his stomach growl.

  Colorful banners hung between stone pillars over the museum’s façade, one of which showcased An Eastern Spiritual Journey summer exhibit. The image used for it was that of a stone Buddha statue, the limited dates of the exhibition listed below it.

  “Collins,” someone called out over the noise of the crowd.

  Patrick rocked to a halt midway up the stairs, scanning the area through his sunglasses. A slight, dark-haired woman in a dark pantsuit caught his attention, and Patrick waved at Detective Specialist Allison Ramirez.

  “I thought I was only meeting with Casale,” he said in greeting as he approached her.

  “Dwayne and I are lead on the case, but the museum director refused to talk to anyone but Casale,” Allison said.

  “Oh, he’s one of those types.”

  Allison snorted. “Seems like it.”

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “Interviewing some of the museum workers involved with the exhibit in question. Casale is with the director, but he told me to bring you to him.”

  “Then lead the way.”

  Patrick had worked with Allison and Dwayne on cases several times before and got on well enough with the detectives. Allison led him up the rest of the stairs to the entrance, flashing her badge at the security guard on duty to bypass the long line of patrons eager to get in. They were waved around the metal detectors, entering the Great Hall beyond. The neoclassical space echoed with footsteps and hushed voices of visitors.

  The information desk was crowded, but Allison bypassed it in favor of approaching a slim blonde woman dressed all in black with a museum lanyard hanging from her neck. She stood near the wall, out of the way of the foot traffic. A walkie-talkie was clipped to her belt, and she was studying an iPad held in one hand. She looked up from it when Allison cleared her throat. The discreetly disdainful once-over the woman gave Patrick made him raise an eyebrow.

  “Is this who we’ve been waiting for?” she asked. Her ID card listed out her name as Cynthia Fox, a curator for the museum. She felt human to his magic.

  “SOA Special Agent Collins is here to assist the PCB with your problem,” Allison said mildly.

  Cynthia shook her head. “The SOA really didn’t need to get involved.”

  “Chief Casale thought otherwise. If you’ll take us to him and your director?”

  Allison was polite enough, but the request was firm. Cynthia sniffed delicately, clutching the iPad to her chest. “Very well. Follow me.”

  They were escorted out of the Great Hall and into a side alcove where an employees-only door was located. Cynthia scanned her access card across the sensor to unlock it and allow them entry into the maze of corridors and offices that made up the museum staff’s work area behind the scenes.

  It took several minutes for them to make their way to the museum director’s office, needing to take an elevator to a higher level. The office area was cramped, but the director’s was the largest Patrick had seen on their walk-through. It didn’t come with any windows due to the building’s architecture, but the walls were covered in artwork and credentials.

  Casale stood in front of the director’s desk, but he turned around at their arrival. He wore a business suit rather than a white-shirted uniform, probably to help blend in with the crowd. Patrick had a feeling the director wanted discretion over anything else if he’d waited days to report a crime.

  “Collins,” Casale said.

  Patrick nodded in greeting. “Thanks for getting me out of the office. What’s going on?”

  “Apparently the Met had an artifact stolen from their summer exhibition this weekend. Director Phillippe Weiss finally reported it missing today.”

  Phillippe was a slim man in a sleek suit with stylishly cut brown hair of a particular shade that spoke of hair dye. He bristled at Casale’s statement, a flash of annoyance crossing his face.

  “As I informed you, we needed to report the loss to our insurance company first,” Phillippe said.

  Patrick shrugged. “Insurance companies will always advise reporting the crime to the police or a federal agency. What’s missing?”

  Casale gestured at a file spread out on Phillippe’s desk, colorful archival photographs and insurance paperwork lined up for perusing. “The Trishula of Shiva.”

  “My SAIC said it was an artifact.”

  Phillippe irritably waved aside his words. “It was barely an artifact. It held lingering traces of magic that were so miniscule our archivist witch said it didn’t need wards. Representatives of the Louvre agreed when we gave them a preliminary report on our security efforts.”

  “It still had magic. It probably should have been warded.”

  “It’s a priceless piece of art, not a weapon. The Met is already warded to protect the collections.”

  Patrick bit his tongue so he wouldn’t say something he’d regret about how anything with magic could become a weapon. He was living proof of that. “When was it stolen?”

  “Friday night sometime. We’ve been given security feed of the exhibit room from Friday through Saturday, when it was discovered missing. Ramirez will be going over the security feed when we get back to the PCB. According to these screenshots, it was there one second and gone the next,” Casale said.

  Patrick approached the desk and peered down at the two sheets of paper depicting the screenshots in question, the time stamp separated by a single second. The Trishula of Shiva was propped up behind a tall glass case, the soft light angled at it causing the gold to shine, the exhibit room empty. The next screenshot showed an empty case and still no one in the room at the time.

  “Did anyone check the wards surrounding the room for tampering?” Patrick asked.

  “The sorcerer in charge of magical security is one of the people Guthrie is interviewing right now,” Allison said.

  Patrick frowned, catching Casale’s eyes. “I’ll need to speak with them and see the exhibit room in person. Can you get me a copy of the security feed as well?”

  “It’ll get reviewed back at the PCB with some facial recognition software. We’ll make you a copy after we get those results,” Casale said.

  “Does the trishula have any history of conflicting ownership?”

  Phillippe cleared his throat. “No. It was donated by a private owner to the Louvre twenty years ago. Its historical background is not at issue.”

  “We’ll need copies of those records.”

  “They’re already being pulled at Chief Casale’s request.”

  Patrick nodded. “Then I want to see the exhibit room.”

  Phillippe sighed in obvious irritation. “Cynthia can show you. I ask that you don’t make it obvious you’re there for a crime.”

  “I’ll come along. Ramirez can take it from here,” Casale said, nodding at his detective.

  “We aren’t closing the exhibit down while you’re there. The museum is open, and it will be too noticeable if we attempt to close off that area right now,” Cynthia warned as she opened the office door.

  Casale stared her down. “We already lost possible evidence by your delay in reporting the crime. That isn’t helpful. We’ll handle this review as we see fit.”

  “What did you do with the display case?” Patrick asked Phillippe.

  The director waved a hand at them. “It’s still in the exhibit room. We left a placard stating the trishula has been taken off exhibit for the time being.”

  Patrick caught
Casale’s eye and shook his head in disbelief. The things some people did to try to save their own ass. Not that he had any room to talk.

  “Let’s go,” Casale said.

  Patrick was glad Casale had opted for a suit over a uniform. It meant neither of them stood out when they finally made it to the special exhibition gallery in the center of the museum. Cynthia walked them past the timed-entry line, leading them to the room that had held the Trishula of Shiva and currently still held other artifacts.

  The second Patrick stepped into the exhibit room, recognition cut through his shields, the warning burning through his magic. Patrick’s head snapped to the side, gaze skimming the nearby crowd. His attention settled on a man who made his lips curl into a snarl.

  “Excuse me,” Patrick said curtly.

  He left Casale and Cynthia without explanation, sliding through the small crowd, never taking his eyes off Youssef Khan. The alpha of the rival New York City god pack watched him come with a sharp smile, amber eyes bright in the dim lighting of the exhibit room. He hadn’t bothered with sunglasses, which ensured everyone gave him a wide berth.

  Youssef was in his forties, stocky and dark-haired, and married to Estelle. Patrick was of the opinion their marriage was a power exchange rather than one built out of love. They’d kept a stranglehold on the packs in New York City over the years, but Patrick’s pack was rapidly changing that. Niceties had long since been left by the wayside between their packs. The fact that Youssef was here didn’t bode well. It made Patrick hyperaware of his space, knowing other werecreatures could be in the Met. Aside from that, their paths crossing right now was decidedly not a coincidence.

  “Come to gloat over your crime scene?” Patrick asked lightly, unable to keep the venom out of his voice.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Youssef drawled.

  “Right. Because you aren’t making deals with devils, except for how you are.”

  “Again, you’re making accusations that have no merit.”

  “How long have you been following me?”

  “I wasn’t, but even if I was, you’re easy enough to track.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You leave a lot of damage behind wherever you go. Here. Chicago. Paris.”

  Youssef’s smile settled somewhere in the vicinity of a smirk. Patrick’s magic wasn’t picking up any hint of hell from the older man, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been around any hunters carrying demons in their souls. After everything they’d uncovered in London, Patrick knew it was only a matter of time before the demons came out.

  “Stalking is a crime, especially when a federal agent is the target,” Patrick said.

  Youssef stepped closer, not bothering to keep his voice down. “But you’re not just a federal agent, are you? Stands to reason you’re fair game in your other capacity. I’ve always been curious if your superiors know of your true allegiance and how it affects your cases.”

  Patrick fought against clenching his teeth, trying to keep any physical tells to the bare minimum. “If you’re here to fight—”

  “I’m here to enjoy the fine arts.” Youssef’s gaze briefly flickered over Patrick’s shoulder before returning. “The Met is open to everyone.”

  “Is there a problem?” Casale asked from behind Patrick, voice calm and easy.

  Youssef rocked back on his heels, never taking his eyes off Patrick. “No problem, Casale.”

  “Then you might want to move along. We’re working.”

  It wasn’t a suggestion. Youssef seemed more willing to listen to Casale than to Patrick—whether for ulterior motives or otherwise, Patrick couldn’t tell. Considering what was going on, Patrick would leave the Met later as if he were heading into a war zone. He didn’t trust Youssef not to try to ambush him out in the open.

  Youssef left the exhibit room at a lazy pace, secure in the knowledge that Patrick couldn’t do anything to him. Patrick wasn’t sure how far the other man would really go, so he pushed magic out of his damaged soul and conjured up a tiny mageglobe. He closed his fingers around the softly glowing pale blue sphere, filling it with a silence ward. Static washed over the space he and Casale stood in, bringing with it an all-consuming quiet.

  “I didn’t think you liked being so popular,” Casale said after a moment.

  Patrick turned to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Patrick fought back a scowl. “Youssef is an asshole. So is his wife. It’s not a crime to hate them when they’re shit at their jobs.”

  “The fights breaking out between packs are a crime when innocent people get caught in the crossfire.” Casale frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. “What’s happening won’t be good for your job in the long run.”

  Patrick knew that, but his pack wasn’t something he could or would walk away from. At some point, his personal and professional lives were going to collide. But that was in some future even the Fates couldn’t control, and all Patrick could do was walk toward it.

  “Lucky for you all I’m doing today is dealing with a stolen piece of art and not a dead body,” Patrick said.

  Casale eyed him for a moment before shaking his head. “Word of advice, Collins. Estelle and Youssef won’t back down. Things are going to get ugly.”

  “Uglier than hunters with demons in their souls making a mess of the city? You know what they’ve done.”

  “Knowing and proving are two separate hurdles.”

  It was an argument Patrick couldn’t afford to have in public, even with a silence ward wrapped around them. His position in their god pack wasn’t known yet to the public, even if Casale was tacitly aware of it. The longer he could keep that fact hidden, the safer his pack and his job would be.

  “We’ve got a case to work on,” Patrick finally said.

  Casale allowed the change of subject without a fight. Patrick drew down his magic, the silence ward fading away around them. Sound hit his ears again, and Patrick shoved aside his worry about pack problems in favor of doing his job.

  2

  “Another scotch?” the Gucci salesperson asked with a polite smile on her face, crystal decanter in hand. She smelled only slightly of fear, which was a refreshing change considering Jono usually got overwhelmed with that scent in close quarters whenever he went somewhere without his sunglasses.

  Still, it tainted the alcohol.

  Jono glanced over at the cut-crystal glass resting on the stylish table by the sofa he sat on in the private fitting room they’d been escorted to upon arrival. He’d drunk almost all of the first glass he’d been offered, the taste of the expensive drink still on his tongue, souring in the back of his throat.

  “No, thanks,” Jono said.

  She nodded and moved on to ask the same question of Leon Hernandez, who had no compunction about taking another glass. Marek’s was only half-empty since it was his turn up on the tailoring dais for the final fitting of his three-piece wedding suit. Patrick would’ve been there, except he’d been assigned a case yesterday and was currently working. His final fitting would have to be rescheduled, but Gucci’s fashion director had said it wouldn’t be a problem.

  Apparently money could make the world revolve around you, as Jono was witnessing when it came to Marek and Sage’s upcoming nuptials. Being a tech billionaire meant no expense was spared for the intimate ceremony planned for the end of the month. That included being able to dictate the schedule of a luxury fashion house designer.

  “You should have another one. It’s not like it’ll impair you from putting on your suit,” Leon said as he sniffed appreciatively at his drink.

  “Had quite a bit last night at work,” Jono said.

  Leon nudged the small platter of hearty steak sandwiches Marek had asked be available for today’s fitting closer to Jono. “Then eat something. You can’t have got much sleep last night.”

  Jono picked up half a sandwich. “I got enough.
”

  Truth be told, it wasn’t much, but the hour-long nap he’d snatched in bed with Patrick that morning after closing up the bar had been worth it. Holding Patrick in his arms always put Jono in a better mood these days.

  Leon eyed him, brown eyes full of worry, just like his scent. He was the co-leader of the Tempest pack, and his partner, Emma Zhang, was Sage’s matron of honor. Leon would stand with Marek as his best man, and Jono would be walking Sage down the aisle. Their wedding party was small because neither were fans about putting their lives out there for the public to consume.

  Unfortunately, privacy was becoming difficult to come by. Ever since Jono and Patrick had delegated Emma as their proxy dire while they’d been in Europe, she’d lost some of her hard-fought anonymity. The encroaching media spotlight was beginning to widen onto PreterWorld, the social media company Marek owned and which Emma and Leon both worked at. The business was profitable, but Jono wondered how much longer it would be before its stock took a nosedive because of their personal lives.

  “You’re next, Jono,” Marek said.

  Jono watched as Marek was helped out of his suit jacket, the item in question handled carefully. Assistants divested him of the rest of his clothes, the suit needing no further alterations. Jono eyed where his hung from a rolling rack, assistants already working to take it out of its garment bag. He swallowed the last bit of scotch in his glass and stood.

  “Stand here and strip, please,” Terry said. The designer pointed at the dais without looking at Jono in favor of loudly directing his staff about as if he were a conductor. Jono could still hear how fast his heart was beating, the hint of fear mixing with his sweat. Terry was good at hiding his fear, but he was still uncomfortable around werecreatures.

  Jono didn’t mind stripping down to his underwear. He wouldn’t have cared if he needed to be naked. Most werecreatures didn’t, and Marek had learned not to be over the years after joining the Tempest pack.