A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound #4) - Hailey Turner Page 0,79
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 black magic to the third floor on unerring feet, coming into what might have been an entertainment room. It had been ruined by whatever high-level casting had happened in the home, one strong enough to send a wave of backlash through the ley lines and any mages within Chicago.
The pentagram burned onto the hardwood floor, the black and red candle wax melted into clumps around carved idols at the five points, and the concentric circles filled with the blood of a baby boar ruined the vibe of the place. The dead animal’s throat had been cut, all its blood drained out, before being tossed into a corner.
Scattered in the spaces between the concentric circles were flower petals of a color not found on Earth. They reminded him of the plants blooming in the forests surrounding the Spring Queen’s court in Tír na nÓg. Lying in the exact center of the pentagram was a single lock of dark red hair, burned at one end. It made him wonder what else Ethan’s acolytes had stolen from the fae when they’d gone after Órlaith.
The residual in the room was black magic mixed with sex, reminding Patrick of how it felt