“You’re to release whatever the owner of this receipt signed over to you,” Patrick said.
Patrick pulled out the evidence bag with the receipt inside it, laying it flat on the countertop. He never took his fingers off the evidence bag.
The ifrit stared at the receipt for a long moment before laying the warrant on the counter. “If I say I don’t have it?”
Patrick left the warrant where it was. “The receipt was dated two weeks ago. The Westbergs were still within their first thirty-day cycle for repayment. You aren’t allowed to sell it.”
“I heard Westberg is dead.”
“His wife is still breathing, and she’s the signatory on the paperwork.” Patrick leaned forward, staring the ifrit down. “Show me the itemized invitation they left with you. Don’t make me ask again.”
The ifrit grimaced before shoving himself away from the display case. “Follow me.”
Patrick picked up the warrant and the evidence bag, pocketing both as he followed the ifrit into a back storeroom that doubled as an office. Patrick stood in the doorway, watching as the ifrit perused a couple of shelves before finally hauling out a slender warded box. Patrick automatically strengthened his shields.
“The item number you were looking for,” the ifrit said.
Patrick checked the tag affixed to the box, double-checking it against the receipt number he’d memorized. They matched.
Patrick’s shields remained active when he accepted the warded box. No magic was triggered when Patrick touched it.
“Unlock it,” Patrick said.
The ifrit reached out slowly with one finger and touched the center of the box. The wards withdrew into the wood, allowing Patrick to open it.
Inside lay a large cream-colored envelope. Patrick picked it up and set the warded box aside. When he turned the envelope over, the wax seal was broken. He traced the image of a globe pressed into the wax, bits blurred from being cracked. Patrick carefully lifted the flap, sliding free a single card, the thick paper embossed with gold and filled with magic.
It was an invitation to a black market auction of artifacts.
Patrick read the invitation twice more before closing up the envelope and slipping it into the evidence bag. “This was used as collateral for a set of idols. Do you know what kind?”
The ifrit shrugged, not admitting to anything. “No.”
Patrick thought about the pentagram in Westberg’s house, and the idols carved to carry Freyr’s prayers. He refused to think about the walled-off connection buried deep in his soul that tied him to Hannah.
“I’ll want the paperwork on that sale.”
The ifrit smiled, biting and hard. “Got a warrant? Because the one you have doesn’t cover your request.”
Patrick slipped his dagger free of the sheath, flipping it around his fingers to get a better grip, never taking his eyes off the ifrit. The matte-black blade crackled with heavenly fire along the edge. “Sure. I have a warrant.”
“That’s not a warrant.”
Patrick stared the demon in the eye. “You can pretend the current warrant encompasses what I’m asking for, or I can do one of two things. Call up a federal judge and let her know the warrant that brought me here also uncovered some illegal business activity, which will just bring in more SOA agents, or I can show you how my dagger works.”
The ifrit licked his lips. “That’s extortion.”
“I call it doing my job. I think we both know what went down last night. If I let Aksel Sigfodr know you had a hand in that mess?” Patrick shrugged. “Not my problem if you turn up dead this week.”
The ifrit dropped his gaze to the dagger and stared at it for several heartbeats before giving in. “I’ll get you the paperwork.”
Patrick left The People’s Pawn Shop a couple minutes later, carrying the invitation and paperwork showing the Westbergs had used it as collateral to purchase a set of idols that should’ve been in a museum somewhere. He climbed back into the SUV, knocking snow off his boots before closing the door.
Wade wrinkled his nose. “You smell like demon.”
“Maybe keep your nose to yourself and you wouldn’t have a problem,” Patrick said.
Jono eyed him curiously. “Everything go all right?”
“Yeah.” Patrick stared at the envelope inside the plastic evidence bag. “Everything went fine.”
He held in his hands what might be their first solid lead on the location of the Morrígan’s staff—Patrick just wasn’t sure what finding it would cost them.
22
“Won’t the cops see us?” Wade asked, nervously chewing on a thumbnail.
Jono squinted through the fog as they came up from the pedestrian pathway into Oak Street Beach. It was cold by the water, but the heat charms Patrick had spelled into Jono’s clothes were a soft comfort. “I think the gods have that issue well in hand.”
Jono removed his arm from around Patrick’s shoulders, taking the other man’s gloved hand instead. Patrick gave him a weary half-smile. “That’s not always a good thing.”
“You said it yourself, Pat. We don’t need an audience for this.”
“I’d rather be in bed than traipsing around the beach.”
Jono couldn’t agree with him more. He hadn’t seen Patrick since the mage had left their hotel room early that morning. Tuesday had turned out to be just as busy as Monday for Patrick, while Jono and Wade had remained in the hotel. Since the SOA was taking lead on the Westberg case, and they’d gotten what information they needed about the Morrígan’s staff, Jono and Wade were leaving in the morning.
Tonight though, the three of them had eaten dinner at a restaurant downtown, one Naomi had suggested wouldn’t discriminate against them because of Jono’s eyes. The food had been good, but rather than head back to the hotel like Jono had hoped to do, they found themselves returning to the shores of Lake Michigan. His plans for a night in had been derailed by a summons from the Norse gods, one which none of them could ignore.
The drive north hadn’t been terrible. The reactionary storm had settled into normal bad weather that was slowly breaking
