“He doesn’t even know how to drive,” Patrick muttered.
“That’s not likely to stop him.”
Brynhildr and Eir came over to the table. Patrick eyed Eir, who bypassed an empty seat to approach him. She reached for him, her hand hovering over his head. “May I?”
Patrick knew better than to accept help from gods, but the general grossness he felt at the moment from being hungover was enough to get him to cave. “Yeah. Have at it.”
She brushed her fingers over his forehead, and a cool wave of magic washed through him. It dragged away his headache and lingering traces of nausea, took away the foul taste still coming up on his tongue from too much whiskey.
Patrick straightened up, feeling mostly human again. “Thanks.”
“We need you in one piece,” Eir said.
Patrick was never surprised by that answer. Jono shoved his plate over to Patrick and pointed at it. “Eat.”
“Any news, Brynhildr?” Frigg asked.
The valkyrie dipped her head out of respect to the other goddess. “Nothing worthwhile, my lady. We believe Hades is helping to keep the enemy hidden from us, along with Odin, and the veil is thick in this city.”
“Hades will die by my hand if need be,” Thor said as he stood from the table.
“Persephone might beat you to it.” Patrick paused before shaking his head. “Or she’ll kill you.”
Thor’s smile was condescending. “I will welcome her attempts if she tries, for she will not win that fight.”
Patrick wasn’t so sure, but it wasn’t worth arguing over. He pushed his chair away from the table and got to his feet. He grabbed the slice of bread with meat and cheese on it from Jono’s plate and folded it in half. “I need to get going. I’ll let you know if the dead have anything useful to say. Maybe see if you can’t find Freyr and get any answers out of him.”
Jono followed him out of the bar back into the snow. Wade was crouched between two motorcycles, petting the seats under the watchful eyes of a couple more valkyries.
“Let’s go, Wade,” Patrick called out.
Wade craned his head around to look at them. “Wow. You no longer smell like a distillery.”
“Funny. Get in the car. I’m dropping you both off at the hotel.”
Jono shook his head. “Drop us off at a coffee shop near your work.”
“You’ll be more comfortable at the hotel than in a coffee shop. I have a lot of work ahead of me.”
“Yeah, and you might need us. We’ll stick close by. It’ll be cheaper to feed Wade at a restaurant rather than through room service or the minibar.”
Patrick shrugged. “If you say so. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“It doesn’t matter. The hotel is too far away if something goes wrong.”
“It might not be.”
Jono smiled tightly. “Best not tempt fate.”
Patrick would rather shoot the Fates, but he knew bullets couldn’t kill a god.
Special Agent Anika Dandridge didn’t make it to the Chicago SOA field office until close to 1700. Patrick felt her presence before he even saw her.
Is this how I feel to everyone?
Even through his shields Patrick could sense the shroud of death that surrounded Anika, saturating her aura with a darkness that wasn’t bad, just cold. Patrick stood to greet her as she entered Dabrowski’s office, eyes flicking from her dark face to the psychopomp trotting at her feet. It took the shape of a fat little pug, gray in coloring, with keen, otherworldly eyes.
Anika herself was an African American woman in her late forties, tall, her graying hair twisted into dreadlocks pulled back in a thick ponytail. Born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, Anika was a necromancer who owed her life to the government—literally. As with most black magic, it was illegal, but she had been granted a reprieve of life as a child after her case was appealed through all levels of the courts until it reached the United States Supreme Court. The nine justices had ruled unanimously to allow her to live.
Government interference at its finest.
“Special Agent Dandridge,” Dabrowski said as he stood. “I wish your first trip to my field office was under better circumstances.”
Anika left her carry-on by the door to come greet them. She didn’t extend her hand in greeting, but Patrick did. She eyed him for a moment before accepting the handshake. Even through his shields, he could feel the pull of her magic, a hunger in her power that reached for his soul despite his shields.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Patrick said.
Anika shrugged, the ankle-length wool coat she wore shifting with the motion. “A judge signed off on my services. It’s not like I could say no.”
“I know how that is.”
“Let’s get you and your companion to the body,” Dabrowski said.
Anika glanced down at the psychopomp sitting politely by her feet. “Selene. Is the body onsite?”
“In our morgue.”
“And the supplies I requested?”
“Waiting for you. The videographer arrived about two hours ago and finished setting up the camera.”
“Excellent.” Anika graced them both with a polite smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then let’s go wake the dead.”
The SOA’s morgue in the basement reminded Patrick of the one at the PCB back in New York. The dead always had to be handled with care, and the wards embedded in the walls and floors of the morgue were different than the ones sunk into the building’s foundation.
Anika brought her luggage with her, and Selene never left her side. Patrick kept pace behind the psychopomp. As a pug, it was cute and would probably go unnoticed to mundane humans for what it truly was—a spirit guide for the dead.
Psychopomps were rare and only appeared to people whose magic dealt with the dead. Patrick had only met one before this. Spencer Bailey was an old friend from the Mage Corps and a soulbreaker with an affinity for the dead. His psychopomp had taken the shape of an ocelot with an attitude.
The head
