He hadn’t been given an address when leaving the SOA field office, just a general direction to Lincoln Park. Fine-tuning the location was up to Bowen. He’d given her his cell phone number, but she hadn’t called to give him an update yet. She was a mage who could follow the ley lines, and despite getting knocked on her ass from the backlash, she was back in the field doing her job.
What Patrick could pick up the closer they got to the urban park that carried the Lincoln namesake were traces of black magic. Whatever spell had been cast, the remnants of it were drifting on storm-driven winds, settling on snow-covered rooftops of people unaware their souls were in danger.
“Trying to track down everyone who might need their soul stripped of black magic in this weather is going to be a mess,” Patrick muttered.
Patrick’s phone beeped with a text message. Jono picked it up for him and unlocked it. “It’s an address.”
“Plug it into the GPS, will you?”
Jono did, and the GPS recalibrated. When the computerized voice spoke the destination, Patrick blinked in surprise. “Wait, what’s the address again?”
Jono repeated it and gave him a questioning look. “Do you know it?”
Patrick wanted to press on the gas, but speeding in this weather was a good way to slide into an unmoving object, like a parked car or the nearest powerline post. “That’s one of Dean Westberg’s personal properties.”
“The candidate guy?” Wade asked. “Oh, man. That can’t be good.”
“Maybe someone got revenge on the bloke for messing around with souls,” Jono said.
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
It took fifteen minutes to get three blocks over. When Patrick turned down the street in question, it was blocked by government cars taking up most of the street. Patrick put the SUV into park and activated the emergency brake. He left the keys in the ignition so the heater would keep running, but still wrote a heat charm onto the roof.
“Stay put,” Patrick told them as he pulled on his gloves before opening the car door.
“I have one bag of donuts left,” Wade warned.
Patrick rolled his eyes and left Jono to deal with Wade’s never-ending hunger. He zipped up his leather jacket and shoved his gloved hands into the pockets to keep them warm as he trekked toward the house that was surrounded by agents. The beanie kept his head warm, and his boots held up in the snow well enough, but he’d rather be indoors and out of the elements.
Recognition was a bitter burn in his soul from the black magic lingering in the air. The house in question was a four-story, red-bricked mansion with a set of stone steps leading up to a porch and the front door. The lights were off, no one was home, but the entire building was leaking residual black magic like a broken dam.
“Anyone send out a shelter in place order yet?” Patrick asked once he made it past the perimeter and met up with Bowden on the sidewalk in front of the house.
“The SAIC is getting it issued,” Bowden said, her breath coming out in white puffs. She glanced at him, her dark brown eyes reflecting the light of the vibrant green mageglobe that hovered near her shoulder. “No one answered when we knocked, but we can’t get the door open.”
“Warded?” Patrick asked.
Bowden shook her head. “Spelled. We can’t get through it. I stopped anyone from trying once I got a read on the spell. The casting looks military grade to me. Figured that’s more your expertise than mine.”
Patrick sighed and took his hands out of his pockets, flexing his fingers. “I’ll take a look. Anyone get in contact with Westberg yet?”
“Someone is handling it. This isn’t going to look good for him once the media picks up on it.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t be dealing in magic, then.”
There was a lot more that Patrick wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. Taking the steps two at a time to the porch, Patrick slowed to a stop in front of the closed door. The sickly magic emanating from it scratched against his shields with a familiar sort of deadliness he remembered from his time in the field with the Hellraisers.
“Trying to ruin everyone’s day,” he muttered under his breath as he raised both hands and conjured up a mageglobe. “Assholes.”
The tripwire spell was a messy one, meant to turn whoever walked through it and anyone in the immediate area into so much meat. Patrick conjured up a tiny mageglobe, cradling it against his palm as he traced the spellwork with a single finger. Pale blue light sank into ugly red-orange, highlighting the lines of the spell and leading him to the origination point near the peephole.
It wasn’t unlike the spells he’d cleared in hot zones while in the Mage Corps. Undoing it took some focus, a precise cut of magic, and the willpower to unravel the spell piece by piece. It took a couple of minutes, but Patrick eventually lifted what was left of the tripwire spell off the door and burned it with mage fire. The smell of the magic made him gag. To get away from the smell, he unlocked the door with a key charm that was strong enough to override the home’s threshold.
The door swung open and Patrick unholstered his gun, switching off the safety. He heard Bowden and some of the other agents follow him inside as he cleared the front living area.
“Clear,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear.
SOA workers worked to clear every room and level of the home. Patrick followed the heaviest traces of
