“Pretty sure the Bean got scratched,” Patrick had replied.
“The Bean got struck by what looks like lightning and had a hole blown through it.”
“Oops?”
Probably not the best answer to give a SAIC after wrecking Chicago’s waterfront, but Patrick hadn’t cared. He’d survived, and figuring out the lies to spin started in that ambulance.
That had been hours ago though, and the thirty-minute break Patrick had taken under the watchful eyes of an EMS crew felt like days. Dealing with the aftermath of a breach in the veil meant he’d declined a ride to the nearest hospital but had taken one to his borrowed SUV parked on the street. It had miraculously escaped damage.
The clothes Jono and Wade had stashed in the trunk were gone—the pair having fled the scene with Naomi and Alejandro’s god pack—but Patrick’s had been there. He’d gotten dressed and gone back to work because that’s what an SOA agent did.
The national news was reporting on the Dominion Sect attack with a fervor Patrick usually attributed to sharks smelling blood in the water. The local Chicago news stations were focused on what had happened in Millennium Park, but they were also reporting on the news of the spellwork performed in Westberg’s Gold Coast property. Patrick gave it another day or so before some intrepid reporter linked the two incidents and every SOA agent in a one-hundred-mile radius was reduced to the tried-and-true no comment answer for everything.
Patrick gave it maybe an hour before reporters showed up in Wrigleyville, if they managed to get through the snowy streets.
“Ready?” Kelly asked as she and Benjamin approached where Patrick stood in front of yet another of Westberg’s personal properties.
Patrick had a raging headache, more bruises on his body than unmarked skin it felt like, and was so tired his eyes burned. But he’d been in this state too many times to count after a case or mission, and he was used to pressing on. It helped that he wasn’t hurt like he had been after the fight in Central Park last year. He hadn’t been the one to break the spell and close the veil—that had all been Odin’s doing this time around.
“Let’s go,” Patrick said.
As federal raids went, ransacking Westberg’s fourth property turned out to be more interesting than the last two. A federal judge had practically mass printed warrants for the SOA to raid Westberg’s homes, campaign office, and real estate corporate office once she’d reviewed the certified video of Westberg’s resurrection. Patrick had a feeling she’d also viewed some of the cell phone videos making the rounds on the internet.
Yggdrasil had been seen for miles, a beacon in that storm many people had taken pictures and videos of. The fight was the viral moment of the week, and Patrick was just grateful none of the video was clear enough to make out much of anyone through the snow. As evidence of the Dominion Sect’s intent went, it was fairly damning.
Westberg’s fourth home in Wrigleyville had been bought through several shell companies. Once they made it inside, Patrick understood why Westberg seemed to want to keep his name and affiliation buried beneath layers of paperwork.
The home, when the SOA agents and workers entered, was like a museum of artifacts. It was not something a conservative democrat with a well-known record of personal anti-magic and anti-anything supernatural politician would want to be known for owning.
Westberg had paid quite a small fortune for the home to be warded so no hint of magic would seep past the threshold. Inside, artifacts were displayed as if they were works of art being showcased in a museum. Considering the mix of magic, and the costs of individual wards to keep some of the more malignant artifacts contained, Westberg’s illicit pastime wouldn’t have endeared him to some of his donors.
Benjamin let out a low whistle, making sure to keep his hands to himself as they looked around the living room they found themselves in. “Guess he was living a double life after all.”
“Most politicians do in one way or another,” Kelly said.
“They’re announcing his death at a news conference later today after the family has been notified,” Patrick said, squinting at the glass display case inside a grandfather clock. The gris-gris there looked old, but the magic in its making felt strong.
“His name is still on the ballot. I think it’s too late to remove it since the election is so soon.”
Benjamin pursed his lips. “That’ll make for some messy voting.”
Patrick straightened up and fought back a yawn. “We’ll need a CSU team in here and someone from Archives. Tell them to bring a couple of warded transport vans. This is going to take longer than a day to tag, archive, and remove everything for evidence. Some of this stuff might not even be stable. The containment wards are all overlapping in a real bad way.”
“Maybe Westberg was a shitty archivist,” Kelly said.
“And a shitty politician,” Benjamin added.
“I’ll drink to that once we’re off shift.” Kelly sighed. “I wonder if it’s too much to hope he kept the records for all of this onsite somewhere.”
In Patrick’s experience, people who dealt with the black market rarely kept records. The less incriminating evidence lying around, the better. Patrick didn’t know what Westberg was thinking when he decided to create a veritable museum inside a house.
Three hours later, after clearing every room of any active spells meant to keep people out and do harm, Patrick decided it was all about the money.
During the course of clearing the building, he’d discovered a veritable knot of spells and wards over a portrait of Westberg’s wife in the master bedroom. Judging by the structure of the walls and the layout of the room, he was pretty certain there was a safe behind the portrait.
Getting through to it took two more hours of delicate spellwork performed by a sorceress Patrick was never going to introduce Wade to because the teen didn’t
