A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound #4) - Hailey Turner Page 0,118
point; he’d give almost anything for a bed right now.
“You sure you don’t want me to go in with you?” Jono asked. “Place stinks of demon.”
Patrick fought back a yawn. “Owner is an ifrit, and there’s CCTV everywhere. I want you to stay off camera as much as possible.”
“No promises if he goes after you.”
Patrick shoved open the SUV door. “Fine.”
Patrick headed for the pawnshop, pushing open the doors and stepping inside. The heat was running full blast, and he soaked it in for the few seconds it took him to case the shop. No customers were present, but the owner was.
The ifrit watched him approach, his gaze flicking down to the dagger strapped to Patrick’s right thigh. “You again.”
“Me again,” Patrick said. He slipped his hand into his pocket and came up with the warrant a federal judge had only been too happy to sign. “With a warrant this time. Now play nice so I don’t have to arrest you.”
Patrick held up the piece of paper he’d waited three hours to clear that afternoon. It took some finagling, needing approval by the SOA, the PIA, and the US Department of the Preternatural. Patrick had taken an hour-long phone call that had given him a headache only a potion could fix. The red tape had been worth it, if only because they were maybe one step closer to figuring out where the Morrígan’s staff was.
“Let me see,” the ifrit said.
Patrick placed the warrant on the glass countertop of the display case between them and slid it toward the ifrit. The veins on the hand that retrieved it pulsed a little, looking like flowing lava beneath the skin for a second.
“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.”