White Hot

Chapter 4

Half an hour later, the contracts were signed and witnessed by me and the woman who brought them. The woman led me down to the front door, where my minivan waited. The keys were in the ignition. I got into the driver’s seat.

I could just drive off and leave Rogan hanging. That would be hilarious. Of course, he would probably chase me down with something ridiculous, like his own private flying fortress or some such nonsense.

The front door swung open, and Bug slipped out and trotted to the car. I rolled down the window.

“Hey.” He leaned so his elbows rested in the open window. “Are you going to stick around for a while?”

“Looks as if I don’t have a choice.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“It’s been sixteen-hour workdays around here for the past two months. There was a lot of fallout from the Pierce crap. The major had to testify before the Assembly, and four people tried to bring lawsuits, but the bulk of the work was surveillance. This thing, whatever the hell it is, is bleeding amorphous. You sort of find evidence of it, and then the dick fucker just slips from your fingers. This Forsberg’s lawyer meeting was the first solid thing we had, then Tuesday happened . . .”

Getting through the stream of Bug’s consciousness was like hacking your way through a jungle.

“We couldn’t get to Forsberg until today. Yesterday was rough. He went to notify all the families in person. Luanne was one of the sixteen.”

Bug looked at me to make sure I understood the gravity of the situation. Except I didn’t.

“I don’t know what that means.”

He made a sour face. “Just . . . stick around. He has a human expression on his face when you’re around.”

“Thanks, Bug. I’m glad to see you too.” Apparently my function was to keep a human expression on Rogan’s face. Good to know. And here I thought I was spearheading an investigation. How silly of me.

The door opened, and Rogan came out. Bug took off. Rogan watched him go and strode to the car. He’d abandoned his about-to-go-on-a-sorcerous-rampage outfit for old khaki cargo pants, beat-up boots, and a green Henley. The shirt molded to his shoulders and chest. His biceps stretched the sleeves. He looked strong, and rugged, and rough around the edges. He needed an ax or something, so he could casually swing it while he walked. I tilted my head and just watched.

He opened the door and got in. And suddenly the car was full of Rogan and his magic. I could barely breathe.

How had I ever agreed to this? I needed my head examined.

“What did he say?” he asked.

“Just Bug being Bug.”

“You’re avoiding the answer.”

“You’re so perceptive.”

Rogan regarded me with his blue eyes, took out a baseball hat, and put it on. Dragon in camouflage, going down to the village to spy on the delicious people living there.

He clicked his teeth, biting through the air.

I had to stop thinking about dragons.

I shifted out of park and concentrated on driving. I liked being in the car with him. God help me, I missed this. I missed him.

“Is that a new perfume?” Rogan asked.

“I’m not wearing any. What does it smell like?”

“Citrus.”

“That’s probably my shampoo.”

Talk about work, look straight ahead, don’t think about reaching over and sliding my hand down his chest to feel the solid wall of his abs . . . Don’t imagine kissing him . . .

Rogan swore quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I glanced at him. Our stares connected.

Wow. His eyes turned a deep, bottomless blue and they were filled with need. It got away from him and now he was thinking of me naked. A woman would have to be dead not to respond to that, and I wasn’t dead. Not even a little bit.

Anticipation zinged through me. I knew exactly how much space separated us. I felt every inch of it, charged with electric energy. If he touched me right now, I’d probably jump a foot in the air. I stared straight ahead. We didn’t do well in a small, confined space. This was a terrible idea. Maybe I should roll down the window to let some of the sexual tension out.

We needed a distraction, or I’d end up pulling over and we’d end up in the back seat, doing . . . things.

“It makes no sense to go after Jaroslav Fenley’s family,” I said. I had spent a fair amount of time with the background on the three other lawyers and I’d refreshed my memory with my notes on my phone while Rogan and Cornelius wrote their contract. “He lived and breathed his career, according to his home computer. Harper was his only significant relationship in the last few months.”

“Bernard broke into his computer?” Rogan guessed.

“Yes, in thirty seconds. Jaroslav’s router password was ‘admin.’ Probably explains why he fell for Harper.”

“He cut corners,” Rogan said.

“Yes. It takes an effort to change your router password. Most people have to look up how to do it. It takes time and effort to maintain a meaningful relationship. Harper didn’t require a relationship.”

“He could get away with sex and some light pillow talk.” Rogan grimaced. “I know the type. The man is a walking security risk. He works only as hard as he has to to get ahead. His goal isn’t to do his job, it’s to get to the place where he doesn’t have to do his job while still getting paid.”

“It looks that way. Jaroslav logged a lot of billable hours. It looked good on paper. He slept, worked, and worried about his student loans. Bern’s still going through the files, but so far he didn’t find anything incriminating. Jaroslav’s parents live in Canada and he doesn’t keep up with them. His brother just had a baby. It’s all over his family’s Facebook. Jaroslav hadn’t commented on the baby pictures. His family is a dead end, so it’s out. I take it you don’t want to talk to Harper?”

Rogan shook his head. “She’s our only link to this conspiracy. We need to preserve her as long as we can.”

“That leaves us with two choices,” I said. “Marcos Nather’s family or Elena de Trevino’s. Nather’s is closer.”

“Nather it is.”

Marcos and Jeremy Nather lived in Westheimer Lakes, in a typical Texas suburban house: two stories, brick, at least three thousand square feet, with four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a two-car garage. The neighborhood was about seven to eight years old, just enough for the prices to go down slightly. The house wasn’t out of their price range, and according to Bern, their credit looked healthy. Marcos Nather had been a successful lawyer and Jeremy Nather worked as a software engineer employed at a start-up that developed fitness apps. His LinkedIn profile showed that Marcos had worked for Forsberg for the last three years. Before that he worked for Zara, Inc., an investment firm. Marcos and Jeremy had been married for six years and neither had any magic talents. I ran through all of that for Rogan while I drove.

“Where do you get your information?” he asked.

“Why? Planning to get into the private investigator business?”

“Call it curiosity.”

Aha. “A lot of it comes from online databases. We get public records and we pay for the access to criminal history, credit checks, and so on. Social networks are a gold mine. People post a huge amount of personal information online and all of their social accounts are usually connected.”

And that was why, although I had an account at every major social network—including Herald, which was devoted to speculation about Primes, general fangirling, and a lot of fanfic—none of my accounts had any personal information. I didn’t vent online, I made no political comments, and I dutifully posted at least one or two cute kitten pictures every week or so, just to reassure the network algorithms that I wasn’t a bot.

“What’s this?” Rogan pulled a book out of the side pocket on the door. An elaborate arcane circle decorated the front cover. “Circlework: Practical Applications.”

That was my stakeout replacement for Hexology, which was incredibly useful, but so dry it put me to sleep. I had already read Circlework cover to cover, but I hadn’t memorized all of the circles I’d marked as important, so I brought it with me and faithfully tried to reproduce the illustrations on my legal pad while I waited for my insurance fraudsters to stumble.

“What about it?”

I could just ask him directly if he sent them. But then I would know. For some reason not knowing seemed like a better option. Some part of me liked to think it was him.

He flipped through the book. “If you’re ever in need of instruction, I’ll be glad to give you lessons.”

I glanced at him. “What will it cost me?”

“I’ll think of something.” His voice promised all sorts of interesting ideas.

“Bargains with dragons never end well.”

A smug smile touched his lips, turning his expression wolfish and hungry. “That depends on what you’re bargaining for.”

I shouldn’t have gotten into the car with him. That was the long and short of it.

The GPS spoke in Darth Vader’s voice, informing me that my destination was in five hundred feet on the right. Saved by the Sith.

I parked in the shade under a tree, retrieved my gun, and slid it back into my custom women’s on-the-waist holster, where my suit jacket hid it. Men had a much easier time with the concealed carry. I was short-waisted and my hips had a curve to them, so a regular holster just jabbed the gun into my ribs.

Rogan and I made our way to the front door.

I rang the bell. “Best behavior.”

“I remember,” Rogan growled.

The door swung open revealing a man in his thirties. Of average height, with light brown hair and a short beard, he resembled a typical guy you’d encounter in the suburbs: the kind with a steady job, who went to the gym three times a week, and let himself eat a little more than he had ten years ago. His eyes were hollow.

“Now isn’t a good time,” he said.

“Mr. Nather, I work for Cornelius Harrison,” I said, holding out my card. “My deepest condolences.”

He blinked, took my card, and read it. “Private investigator?”

I had to get inside before he shut the door in my face. “House Forsberg is refusing to investigate the murders. Mr. Harrison has asked me to find out what happened to his wife. He wants to be able to tell his daughter that her mother’s murderer didn’t get away with it. I’m deeply sorry to intrude on you in your time of grief. We just need a few moments of your time.”

Jeremy looked at me and sighed. “A few minutes.”

“Thank you.”

He led us through the foyer to the living room sectioned off from the kitchen by an island. Two young children, a boy and a girl, lay on the rug. The boy, older by a year or two, was playing with an iPad, while the girl was building something with Legos. An older woman, her eyes bloodshot, sat on the couch with a book. She glanced at us, her face haggard.

“Mom, I have to talk to these people,” Jeremy said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

She nodded.

“Hi,” the kids chorused.

“Hi.” I waved.

Jeremy forced a smile. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be right back.”

He walked us to the office off the living room and closed the French doors behind us.

“I haven’t told them yet,” he said. His voice caught. “I don’t know how.”

“Have you spoken with anybody? A grief counselor?”

He shook his head. An overwhelming pain reflected in his face, the kind of pain that smashed into you like a car moving at full speed and left you broken and dazed. I wished there was something I could do for him.

I pulled out another one of my cards, checked the contacts on my phone, and wrote my therapist’s name and phone number on it.

“When my father died, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I blamed myself and I dragged my guilt and grief with me like a rock for weeks until I went to see Dr. Martinez. She’s very good at what she does. It will still be terrible, but she’ll help you take the edge off the worst of it. And if she has no openings in her schedule, she’ll be able to refer you to someone who does.”

Jeremy stared at me. “Does it get better?”

“There is no such thing as closure,” I told him. “It never goes away. But it gets duller with treatment and time. Talking about it helps.”

Jeremy took the card and slid it into his wallet.

I took out my digital recorder, pushed the on switch, and said, “Thursday, December 15th. Interview with Jeremy Nather.”

Jeremy leaned against the wall, his arms crossed.

“Mr. Nather, do you know why Marcos was in that hotel room?”

“According to House Forsberg, he was there to have an affair with Nari Harrison. Or Elena de Trevino. Or Fenley. Maybe all of them were going to have an orgy.” His voice was bitter.

“That’s what they told Cornelius as well. With promises of evidence of embezzlement and drug use if the questions continued.”

“It’s absurd.” Jeremy leaned over the table, planting both palms on it. “Marcos was loyal. It was the core of his character. He was loyal and honest.”

“House Forsberg doesn’t have the best reputation,” Rogan said. “Did he have conflicts at work?”

Thanks. Please do destroy the rapport I’m trying to build.

“He was planning to leave the firm,” Jeremy said.

True. “Who else knew about it?”

“Just me and him. Marcos is . . . was a very private man. We were both working too much and missing time with the kids. He wanted to quit and take a year or two at home, but he wanted to pay off the house first. We moved here for the school district, and he wanted to make sure we’d be okay on one income. We’re twenty-eight thousand away from owning this house.” Jeremy rocked back. “I knew it was making him miserable. Three weeks ago I tried to get him to quit. He promised to put in his notice just before the Christmas break. I should’ve pushed harder.”

“Do you think he was in the hotel room because of his work?”

“Yes.”

True. “Do you have any idea what he was working on?”

“No. He didn’t bring that home. I’m the one who usually ranted about work. Marcos compartmentalized. He left work at work. When he came home, he was just Marcos.”

He dropped into a chair, slumped, and put his hand over his eyes. I wouldn’t get anything else out of him.

“Did he have any enemies?” I asked. “Anyone who might . . .”

“Who might murder him in a hail of gunfire?” Jeremy said, his voice dull and flat. “No.”

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” I said. “If you think of something, please call me. We’ll show ourselves out.”

It had started raining. I stood by my car for a moment and let the drizzle wet my hair. The grief was thick in that house, and I wanted to wash it off.

“Did he lie?” Rogan asked.

“No. He truly doesn’t know anything. Neither Nari nor Marcos shared anything with their families, which probably means it was something dangerous.”

We had to try Elena’s family. She was our last obvious lead.

The De Trevinos lived on a lake next to the Southwyck Golf Club, a good fifty minutes away from Westheimer Lakes. I steered the car down TX-99 South, watching the fields bordered by strips of trees roll by. It looked like we were in the middle of nowhere, someplace in the Texas country. You would never know that just beyond the trees brand-new subdivisions carved the land into orderly rows of nearly identical houses.

I took Alt-90 and we cut our way through Sugar Land and Missouri City, tiny municipalities within the greater Houston sprawl. The traffic was light, the road open.

For a few minutes Rogan had flipped through my book and written a couple of notes in it. It still lay open in his hand, but he wasn’t paying attention to it. His jaw was set. He stared straight ahead, his eyes again iced over. This new crystalized rage chilled me to the bone. Whatever was going on in his head was dark—so, so dark. It grabbed hold of him and pulled him under into the black water. I wanted to reach in there and drag him out into the light, so he’d thaw.

“Connor?”

He turned and looked at me, as if waking up.

“What happened to Gavin?”

Gavin was Rogan’s nephew. Adam Pierce, with his motorcycle jacket, tattoos, and deep hatred of any authority, had embodied the image of a cool rebel. Like many teenagers, Gavin had worshipped him, and Adam had preyed on that devotion.

“Gavin made a deal.”

I took an exit onto the Sam Houston Tollway. The road repair crews were working on the shoulder again and I had to drive next to the temporary concrete barriers. Never my favorite. At least I could see. Somehow I always ended up on these roads at night, when it was raining and another concrete barrier boxed me in on the other side.

“What kind of deal?”

“A year in a juvenile boot-camp facility, until he turns eighteen, followed by a ten-year commitment to the military in exchange for his testimony against Adam Pierce. If he fails, he’ll serve ten years in prison.”

“That’s a good deal.”

“Under the circumstances. He happened to have talent, so we used it as a bargaining chip.”

“And you’re sure he isn’t involved in what his mother was doing?”

“He isn’t,” Rogan said.

“I didn’t know you cared about your nephew. You made it seem like you were estranged.”

“Not by my choice.”

He looked out the window, slipping away again. I wasn’t even sure why it was so important to keep him here with me, but it was.

“Have you been practicing with a gun since our last encounter?” I kept my voice light.

He just looked at me.

“No? Rogan, you said yourself, you’re a terrible shot.”

Okay, so this wasn’t the best way to bring him out, but that’s all I could think about.

“You’re riding shotgun,” I continued. “If bandits attack this pony express, how are you going to hold them off without a gun? Are you planning on rolling down the window, announcing yourself, and glaring at them until they faint from fear?”

He didn’t say anything. He just kept watching me.

I opened my mouth to needle him some more.

The barrier on the right of us cracked as if struck by a giant hammer. The cracks chased us, shooting through the concrete dividers with tiny puffs of rock dust. His magic ripped into cement with brutal efficiency. It brushed by me and I almost swung the door open and jumped out.

The cars behind us swerved, trying to shift lanes away from the fractured barriers.

“Stop,” I asked.

The cracks ceased.

“Do you need me to drop you off?” I asked.

“Why would I want that?”

“So you can brood in solitude.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Plot horrible revenge, then. Because you’re freaking me out.”

“It’s my job to freak you out.”

“Really?”

“That’s the nature of our relationship.” A spark lit his eyes. “We both do what’s necessary, and after it’s over, I watch you freak out about it.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to stop. I find it highly amusing.”

That’s the last time I try to cheer you up. Go back into your dragon cave for all I care.

“Would you like me to break one more concrete slab, so you can take a picture for your grandmother?” he offered.

“I changed my mind,” I told him. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

He chuckled.

I should just stop trying.

Grandma Frida would think it was really neat.

I took my phone off the console and held it to him. “Okay, but only one or two more. Just enough for the Vine.”

“Your grandmother has a Vine account?” The barriers fractured.

“Yes. She’ll probably post it on her Instagram too. Okay, that’s enough, thank you, or the driver of the Volvo behind us might have a heart attack.”

Elena de Trevino’s family lived in a huge house. The Nathers’ home was large by most people’s standards, and you could fit two of those into the de Trevino homestead. The building sat on half an acre, a huge dark red brick beast that mashed Colonial Revival with chunks of Tudor around the windows. A thick brick wall guarded the yard, with an arch allowing entrance to the inner driveway and the garages, and the chimney of the obligatory fireplace Texans used once in a blue moon mimicked the steeple of a church.

The difference magic made. Both Elena de Trevino and her husband, Antonio, were rated Average. I had found their LinkedIn profiles and they both listed AV in the powers section.

I parked on the street, and Rogan and I walked to the door.

A young Hispanic woman answered the door. “May I help you?”

Her gaze snagged on Rogan. I might as well have been invisible. Women looked at him wherever he went. In the age of magic, many men were handsome. Rogan wasn’t just attractive; he projected masculinity. It was in his posture, in the male roughness of his face, and in his eyes. When you saw him, you knew no matter what happened, he would handle it. Little did they know that he solved most of his problems by throwing money at them or trying to kill them. Sometimes at the same time.

I offered her my card. “I’ve been hired by House Harrison. I would like to speak with Mr. de Trevino.”

The woman dragged her gaze away from Rogan to the card. “Wait, please.”

She closed the door.

“House Harrison?” Rogan asked.

“Cornelius hasn’t been excised.”

Excision was the worst punishment a magical family could level on its member. They withdrew all emotional, financial, and social support, effectively kicking the offender out of the family. An excised member of the House became damaged goods: his former allies abandoned him for fear of angering his family, and his family’s enemies refused to help him because no excise could be trusted. Cornelius distanced himself from his House by his own choice, but he hadn’t left it.

“Look at this house.” I nodded at the door. “We wouldn’t even get a foot in the door unless we dropped some House’s name.”

Rogan smiled, a wicked sharp grin. “You should let me knock.”

Last time he “knocked” on my door, the entire warehouse vibrated. “Please don’t.”

The door opened, revealing an athletic man about forty years old. He wore grey dress pants and a light grey sweatshirt, the sleeves pulled halfway up his forearms. His face was pleasant: dark eyes under sloping dark eyebrows and a generous mouth. A dark, carefully trimmed beard hugged his jaw. His hair was also dark and cut very short. Antonio de Trevino. His resume said he worked as an investment analyst.

“Good afternoon.” He smiled, showing perfectly even white teeth. “Please, come in.”

We stepped inside.

“I’m Antonio. This way. Sorry for the disarray. We’re kind of in the middle of things.”

He didn’t seem broken up about his wife’s death. Compared to Jeremy, he seemed downright cheerful.

Antonio led us into a vast living room, to plush beige chairs arranged on a red rug. The furnishings looked expensive, but it was the middle-class kind of expensive: new, probably in the latest style, and nice. The furniture in Rogan’s house had weight; it looked timeless. You couldn’t tell if it had been purchased by him, his parents, or his grandparents. Compared to that quality, these furnishings seemed superficial, almost cheap. Perspective was a funny thing.

The Hispanic woman hovered in the doorway.

“Coffee? Tea?” Antonio asked.

“No, thank you.” I took my seat.

Rogan shook his head and sat in the chair on my right.

Antonio took the small sofa and nodded at the woman. “Thank you, Estelle. That will be all.”

She vanished into the kitchen.

“So House Harrison is looking into Mrs. Harrison’s death. Understandable, considering how little Forsberg is doing. How may I help you?”

“Would you mind answering a few questions?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

I took out my digital recorder, tagged the conversation, and set the recorder on the glass coffee table.

“Do you know why your wife was in that hotel room?”

“No. I would imagine for professional reasons. I can tell you that the situation at work had been stressful in the day prior to her death. She seemed distracted at dinner.”

“Did she mention anything specific?”

“She said, ‘I can’t pick up John tomorrow. I’m sorry. There’s an issue at work. The entire office is in a state of emergency and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get home. Would you mind terribly taking him to his play? It’s at seven.’”

He’d said it in his normal voice, but the intonation was unmistakable female.

“You’re a mnemonic,” Rogan said.

“Yes. We both are, actually. Elena was a predominantly visual mnemonic and I’m auditory. We both have near perfect short-term recall.” Antonio leaned back. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I’m deeply saddened by Elena’s death. I lost a capable, caring partner, and our children lost their mother. She was a wonderful parent. The blow to their childhood is devastating.”

True.

“Our marriage was arranged. Our families had agreed that we had a high chance of producing a Significant, so we married and dutifully tried three times. We may have succeeded with Ava, our youngest. Only time will tell. We weren’t in love.” He said it so matter-of-factly.

“And you consented to this?”

Antonio smiled again. “I’m guessing you’re not magically capable. Producing a Significant would be an immense achievement. It would open doors and change our entire social standing. The price is worth it. We’re both reasonable people. We hardly suffer.”

He raised his arms, indicating his living room.

“We allowed ourselves to seek happiness elsewhere, provided we were discreet for the sake of the children. So, if you want the proverbial pillow talk, you’ll have to ask Gabriel Baranovsky. He and Elena had a relationship for the past three years. She went to see him the evening before she died. Perhaps he’ll talk to you. Personally, I doubt it. There are Houses and then there are Houses.”

He’d sunk extra gravitas into the last word just in case I failed to understand its full significance.

“Baranovsky belongs to one of the latter. Elena was very fortunate to have caught his eye, and we’ve benefited from that connection, which is now severed.”

How exactly did he benefit? Did he casually slip it into conversations during business deals? “By the way, my wife is banging Baranovsky. Your money is safe with me.” Ugh.

“It would take someone of equal social standing to get Baranovsky’s attention. House Harrison isn’t one of those families. I do apologize; I don’t mean to be rude. I simply want to make the matter as clear as possible. Primes aren’t like us.”

I glanced at Rogan. His face was stoic.

“They breathe the same air and drink the same water, but their power sets them firmly apart and that’s the way they like it. The gulf between them and a normal person is enormous. You’re an attractive woman, so perhaps with the right attire and a trip to the salon, you might get to his personal secretary. Personally I would go through Diana Harrison. Cornelius’ sister is a Prime, which does mean something even to the likes of Baranovsky, so he may condescend to a meeting. In any case, please let Cornelius and Diana know that I’ll be happy to assist House Harrison in any way possible.”

Five minutes later we made it outside. His wife was dead and all Antonio could think about was how it would affect his social standing. What a colossal asshole.

“The right attire and a trip to the salon?” I rolled my eyes, heading for the car. “I may have to break my piggy bank.”

“That right there is why I don’t socialize,” Rogan said.

“It’s good that we had him explain all this to us. I feel so unprepared. I had no idea I had to have the right outfit before I talked to a Prime. You should’ve given me a list of what was appropriate to wear. I hope you’re not offended.”

I turned and suddenly Rogan was there. I stepped back on pure instinct and my back bumped against the car. All of the ice in his eyes had melted. They were hot, inviting, seducing. He was thinking of sex and that sex prominently featured me.

“I’m not offended.”

His big muscular body caged me in. He focused on me as if the rest of the world didn’t even exist. When he looked at you like that, he made you feel like you were the most important person in the universe. Every word you said mattered to him. Every gesture you made was vital. It was devastating. I wanted to keep talking and doing things to keep him focused on me just like that.

“I don’t care how you come to see me.” His voice was casual, almost lazy. “You can come in a suit. You can come in jeans.”

He was just screwing around with me now. Well, maybe it was time to take some of that power back from him.

“You can come wrapped in a towel. You can come naked. Really, it’s up to you. As long as you come, I don’t care.”

Aren’t you smug? I took a tiny step forward, raising my face as if to kiss him. “What if I don’t come at all?”

His voice dropped. “That would be a tragedy. I would use all of my power to prevent it.”

His eyes were so blue and they were making promises. All kinds of promises about being an outlaw in bed and doing things I would never forget. I looked right into them and tried my best to make some promises of my own.

“All of your powers?” If I leaned forward an inch, we would be touching. The space between us was so charged with tension, if we brushed against each other, we might spark. I was playing with fire.

“Yes.” His magic hovered around him, anticipating and eager, almost daring me to reach out.

“Are we still talking about clothes?” I asked.

“If you say so.”

He leaned forward and I put my finger on his lips and pushed him back. “No.”

His eyes narrowed. “No?”

I dropped my hand.

“Let’s see, you ask me to be your toy, I say no, you move on. You don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t come by. You make no effort to prove to me that you wanted anything more than some casual sex.”

His eyes darkened. “There would be nothing casual about it.”

I believed him, but it didn’t change my point. “You treated me like some cheap amusement.”

He leaned an inch closer. “I didn’t.”

I should’ve been alarmed, but I had too much emotion pent up to stop now.

“Rogan, do you know how little I mattered to you? You didn’t even want to go through the motions of dating me. You just wanted to skip all of it and get straight to sex. You made me feel this small.” I held my index finger and thumb apart about an eighth of an inch. “Have sex with me, Nevada. I’m not even going to pretend to want to know you better.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I offered you a chance to fight for a relationship and you didn’t take it. You clearly moved on. I did too.”

A muscle in his face jerked.

“And now that I’m conveniently here, you decide to give it another shot. Is there a shortage of attractive women in your life, Connor?”

“There is a shortage of you in my life,” he said.

“Really?”

“A critical shortage. One that must be immediately corrected.”

He was being deliberately vague. He couldn’t lie to me, so he resorted to making the kind of statements I’d have a hard time qualifying. You had to admire the man’s brain.

“Not interest—”

Rogan yanked me to him and jerked his hand up. My Mazda left the ground. A six-foot wide disk of crimson fire slashed into my car and exploded. Chunks of razor-sharp metal blades rained on both sides of us, trailing crimson and hissing. I sprinted for the massive oak behind us. Behind me the Mazda crashed onto the pavement with a metal clang.

I pressed my right shoulder against the bark and pulled the Glock out. Rogan landed next to me. Blood soaked his right thigh.

“You’re bleeding!”

“A scratch,” he growled. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

My heart pounded too loud and too fast. The bitter taste of adrenaline coated my tongue.

Something thudded into the tree on the right. I almost jumped.

Another thud.

I leaned forward carefully.

A smaller disk of crimson spun right at my face. I jerked back, colliding with Rogan. The wheel of magic whistled past me and sank into the ground, smoking. A metal star, a foot wide, with four double-edged razor-sharp points. Deep red magic boiled off its blades.

“A barrage mage.” Rogan leaned on his side and ducked back as another star thudded into the oak. “Two.”

“How do you know?”

“Two different shades of red.”

On my side a disk shaved off a slice of the tree.

“Can you stop one in flight?” I asked.

Another disk sliced a three-inch-thick slab from Rogan’s side of the tree.

“No. They’re coated in magic.”

That’s right. According to my books, an object wrapped in magic lost its physical properties until the point of impact. If he jumped out there, the disks these guys threw would slice right through him.

Another chunk slid from the oak. They were chopping it down from two sides. Running to the house was out of the question. The closest place to hide would be the arched entrance to the De Trevinos’ house, which required a fifty-foot sprint. They would hit us. Making an arcane circle was right out too. We were on the grass.

Rogan leaned out. Another thud. He swore, pulling back. All of his magic meant nothing unless he found a target. He could level the entire row of houses across the street, but there were families in those houses.

I dropped down to my knees and peeked from behind the oak.

A shadow moved on the roof of the mansion across from us. A crimson disk hurtled toward me. I threw myself behind the tree. It whistled past me, its magic singeing my shoulder.

“One is on the roof directly across from us.”

Rogan’s face was grim. “The other is at the next house on our left.”

“They’re quick.”

“I noticed that.”

“You can’t collapse those roofs.”

“Not planning on it.”

“This is a family neighborhood. There could be children inside those homes.”

He grabbed my hand and looked at me, his blue eyes calm and reassuring. “I know.”

He wouldn’t hurt them. At least no other people would die because of us.

Disks thudded into the wood, gouging the oak. The tree shuddered from the impact. The barrage mages were ducking and throwing, too fast for Rogan to lock on to.

We had to move. We were running out of the tree.

I leaned back, facing the tree, and turned my head. Nothing to my right. Only houses. Nothing to my left, except more house and a carpet of brown mulch that crawled toward us . . .

Wait a minute.

Not mulch. Ants.

“Rogan, we’re about to have company.”

He glanced to the left and swore.

The carpet of the ants advanced in thin rivulets, the currents of insects pooling and changing directions as if momentarily confused, then realigning themselves. Whoever was controlling them didn’t have a good hold on the ant horde. He didn’t need to. We were in Texas, facing an insect mage, and that meant fire ants. They would flush us from behind the tree and the barrage mages would finish us.

The tree shook continuously now. It wouldn’t last much longer.

The ants marched on. On my right another street crossed ours and the ants poured around the corner. The insect mage had to be hiding there, out of our line of sight.

The crimson disk sliced a hair from my thigh. I turned sideways, almost hugging Rogan.

This is it flashed in my head. I could die right here on this lawn. One good shot from the barrage mages and I would never see my family again.

“How’s your aim?” Rogan asked.

I stomped the fear down. “It will have to be good enough.”

He bared his teeth at me. “On three.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

He held up one finger. Two.

We lunged from behind the tree at the same time. My Mazda snapped in half with a tortured scream of torn metal. The pieces shot up into the air just as the two figures on the roofs ducked from their cover, launching their spinning circles of magic at us. I sighted the one directly across from us. It felt so impossibly slow.

Kill or be killed. I squeezed the trigger. The gun spat thunder. The mage’s head jerked back. I turned, sighting the second barrage mage, and fired. The bullet punched into her chest. She slid down the roof and fell into the sea of ants.

The remnants of my Mazda streaked through the air, blocking the course of the two disks. The magic missiles thudded into metal and fiberglass and exploded, hissing.

Rogan grabbed my hand and pulled me into a run. We dashed across the street, through the arched entrance into someone’s yard and past their house. The brick fence exploded in front of us. Rogan turned left. He was going for the insect mage.

Behind us a woman howled, “Brown! Get them off of me! Fuck!”

“I’m trying!” a male growled from somewhere down the street.

“There are ants in my fucking bullet wound! Get them off of me!”

We sprinted to the corner of the street and stopped. I raised my gun and sliced the corner, clearing it. A large white van was parked by the curb. Four large metal drums sat on the ground next to it. A dark-haired man leaned around the next corner, his back to us.

The woman screamed and choked, her cry suddenly cut off.

“Serves you right, you stupid bitch,” the man muttered.

Rogan marched past me, murder on his face. The insect mage turned. Rogan grabbed his shoulder and sank a vicious punch into the man’s stomach. The insect mage doubled over, sinking. Rogan drove his knee into the man’s face. Something crunched. The mage crumpled to the ground.

“Stop,” I called out.

Rogan moved toward the fallen man.

“Stop, stop, stop.”

He glanced at me.

“Everyone else is dead, Rogan. We can’t question him if you kill him.”

He bent down, grabbed the mage by his throat, hauled him upright, and smashed him against the stone fence. The mage gurgled, struggling to breathe. Blood dripped from his broken nose. His eyes watered. I stepped close and searched him. No gun. I pulled out his wallet. Driver’s license for Ray Cannon. I took out my cell and took a picture of it.

“Is there anyone else?” Rogan asked, his voice cold and precise.

“No,” the man gasped.

Rogan squeezed, crushing his throat.

“True,” I confirmed.

Rogan loosened his hold. The man drew a hoarse breath and looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Help . . .”

Rogan shook him and slammed him back against the fence. “Don’t look at her. Look at me. Who pays your bills?”

“Forsberg.”

Damn it. I was hoping we’d get a lead on whoever was behind the attack. Instead we’d circled right back to Forsberg.

“Talk,” Rogan ordered.

“They told us you killed his old man, Matthias. There are two teams hunting you. We were closer. It was me, Kowaski, and his sister. We came in two cars—the Ford parked down the street and my van. We set up and waited for you to come out.”

“How did you know where we would be?” I asked.

“De Trevino called it in.”

That cockroach.

The look on Rogan’s face sent icy shivers down my spine.

“Rogan, can I please have him?”

All color went out of the mage’s face. He realized whom he’d cornered.

Rogan squeezed his neck again.

I reached out and touched his arm. “Please?”

“Fine.” He let go. The mage slid to the ground.

“You’re going to put the ants back into the drums,” I said. “If I see a single fire ant on this street after we’re done with De Trevino, I’ll ask him to find you.” I pointed at Rogan. “You do know who he is, right?”

The mage nodded quickly.

“Gather your ants and go. The next time I see you, I’ll put a bullet in your head.” There. That sounded dramatic enough.

Rogan ignored the mage and marched on to De Trevino’s house. I followed.

He hit the door with the palm of his hand. His magic smashed into the wood. Every window in the house exploded outward. He strode into the house, his face dark.

Antonio stood in the living room, his face white as a sheet.

“I’m a little irritated.” The furniture slid out of Rogan’s way. “So I’ll ask only once: why did you call Forsberg?”

“I was worried you might impede their investigation . . .” Antonio squeezed out.

“Lie,” I said.

“I just wanted to get information . . .”

“Another lie.”

The house shook.

This was taking too long and if I didn’t do something, Rogan would bring the entire building down. “Look at me,” I said, gathering my magic. “Look into my eyes.”

Antonio glanced at me. My magic shot out and clamped him. He shook, straining under the pressure. My powers were will-based, and with everything that had happened today, my will had a lot of fuel behind it.

My voice dropped into a low, inhuman register. “Why did you call Forsberg?”

The look on Rogan’s face was priceless. That’s right. No circle to help me this time. Somebody leveled up while you were away.

“Money!” Antonio cried out. “If Forsberg confirms Elena’s death happened on the job, her life insurance pays double. House Forsberg promised to not impede my insurance claim if I came forward with any information related to anyone looking into her death.”

I released him. “That’s true,” I told Rogan.

Antonio drew a long, shuddering breath.

Rogan kicked the glass table. It shattered. The shards rose into the air.

Antonio froze, petrified.

A boy burst into the room from the right doorway. He ran across and thrust himself in front of Antonio.

“Don’t kill my dad!’

He couldn’t be older than ten.

“John,” Antonio said, his voice breaking. “Go see to your sister.”

“Don’t kill my dad!” The boy stared at Rogan, his face defiant.

Rogan stared back.

The shards flew through the air and shattered harmlessly against a wall.

“We all choose a side,” Rogan told Antonio. “You chose badly.”

He turned and walked out.

The street outside of Antonio’s house was empty, the river of ants speeding around the corner, probably back into the insect mage’s drums. Sirens howled in the distance. Someone had called the cops.

Rogan’s magic roiled around him, an enraged tornado.

“Thank you for not killing him in front of his son,” I said.

“Adults can make a choice to become my enemy or my ally, or to remain as noncombatants. Children are just children, Nevada. That child lost his mother. I wouldn’t take his father from him.” He checked his phone. “This way.”

We began walking to the right, away from the retreating ant army.

“Enemies, allies, or civilians, huh?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

“And if someone helps the enemy, like Antonio?”

“Then he becomes an enemy himself.”

“And enemies have to be eliminated?” I asked.

“If they present a danger, yes.” Rogan’s face was merciless.

The light dawned in my head. I knew what this was. I had gone through it before. “That’s true in a war. We’re not in a war, Rogan.”

“Of course we’re at war.”

“No. We’re in a civilian world. Things are not black and white. They have shades of grey. There are degrees of punishment, depending on the severity of the crime.”

He faced me, his blue eyes hard and clear, without a shadow of doubt. “This isn’t about punishment. This is survival.”

What the hell happened to you in the war, Rogan? What did they do to you to cause this much damage?

“So if someone, let’s say a young woman, is helping one of your enemies, she’s also an enemy. It’s okay to kidnap her off the street, chain her in your basement, and interrogate her by any means necessary.”

His face told me he really didn’t like where I was going.

“Tell me, how close did I come to being murdered?”

“You were never close to being murdered. At the time, I didn’t feel you presented a threat. I just wanted information and if I had obtained it, I would’ve let you go just as I did. I probably wouldn’t have driven you home myself, but asked one of my people to do it.”

I tried again. “You can’t live like this, Rogan. The war is over.”

He stopped and pivoted back, where two bodies lay prone on the ground. “What does that look like to you? Because it looks like combat to me.”

We resumed walking.

And he liked combat. Combat was simple. It was familiar. He knew who his enemies were because they were trying to kill him, and he knew what his mission was: to survive by eliminating every threat he saw. You didn’t fire warning shots in war. You aimed to kill.

But the civilian life was frustrating and complicated. If Rogan went into a bar and a drunk tried to pick a fight with him, they would expect completely different outcomes. The drunk would expect some insults, then some pushing, then possibly a punch or two, followed by grabbing each other’s clothes and tussling on a street until the alcoholic temper tantrum wore off. The drunk would expect to go home afterward. Because that was his normal, the civilian world’s normal. He had no idea that the moment he designated himself as a threat, a mental switch flipped in Rogan’s brain. If the drunk were lucky, Rogan would incapacitate him by choking him out. If he were unlucky or he tried to pull a knife, Rogan would cripple him or even kill him.

He’d been out of the military for years. He’d probably never sought treatment. He probably didn’t know anything was wrong with him.

“How are you sleeping?” I asked him.

“Like a baby,” he said.

“Nightmares?”

“I came to your house to ask you to be with me. You turned me down . . .”

Way to change the subject. “Right now isn’t the best time for this conversation.”

“It’s the perfect time. I asked you on a date. You said no. I waited. There was no counterproposal.”

“A date?” That wasn’t how I remembered it. I waited for the buzz telling me he’d lied, but none came. “Oh please. That’s not what you were offering and you know it!”

“That’s exactly what I was offering.”

True. How was he dodging me on this . . . “Are you telling me that you weren’t offering a sexual relationship?”

He took a second. “No.”

Ha! Got him. To him a date—whatever he meant by it—was a prelude to sex. In his head he did offer me “a date,” so technically he wasn’t lying. I’d have to be cleverer with my questions.

“I’m not a stalker, Nevada,” he said. “I understood no.”

“I didn’t want you to stalk me, Rogan.”

“What did you want?”

“I wanted you to give me a chance to decide if I wanted a relationship with you. You wanted sex. If you’re really hard up for some uncomplicated sex, I hear Harper is single.”

He made a grunt that might have been no, but it was hard to tell with that much disgust saturating it.

My legs shook. I kept moving. If I told him that the stress was getting to me, he’d probably try to do something ridiculous like carry me. I wouldn’t be carried by Mad Rogan, especially not in public.

“I didn’t say I just wanted sex.”

“Let me quote: ‘Do you want seduction, dinners, and gifts? Seduction is a game, and if you pay enough in flattery, money, or attention, you get what you want. I thought you were above the game.’ Did you not say that to me a week before you strolled into my garage to invite me on ‘a date’?”

“Yes. I wanted to skip the bullshit.”

“So what happened? You changed your mind and now you want the bullshit?”

Rogan’s phone chimed. “Yes, I want your bullshit.”

“Well, you don’t get to have any of my bullshit. I’m keeping it.” Okay, and that didn’t sound childish. Not at all.

“Why not?”

“Because you call it bullshit.”

A silver Range Rover slid around the curve of the road and came to a stop in front of us, Troy behind the wheel. I got into the back before Rogan or I said anything else. I really didn’t want to continue this conversation in front of Troy.

Rogan took the front passenger seat. “Home.”

Troy drove out.

“I’m not sure I fully understand the concept of bullshit,” Rogan said, his voice quiet. “Would you care to discuss it, over dinner perhaps? I’d be happy to listen to an explanation of how I erred. A place of your choice.”

No. If I went to dinner with him, I wouldn’t be able to resist reaching out. I would kiss him. I would probably do other things . . . More intimate things . . . I wouldn’t be able to help myself, and I didn’t want to open that door now.

“I would like to go home.”

“Would spending an evening with me be such a terrible thing?” he asked.

The sincerity in his voice stopped me in my tracks. The witty replies died.

“No.”

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

No, I realized. He would never hurt me. I didn’t even know where that belief came from, yet I was absolutely sure that he wouldn’t. His power terrified me, but it was a deep-seated, instinctual kind of fear. I wasn’t afraid of Mad Rogan. I was probably the only person in Houston who wasn’t.

“It’s not that.”

“I realize that the way I act is disturbing to you,” he said. “I’ll do almost anything to make you feel at ease, but if you want me to be conflicted about eliminating someone who is a threat, I don’t think I can. I don’t believe I’m capable of it anymore.”

This conversation had gone deep really fast. His facade had cracked and the man behind it was looking at me.

“I just killed two people,” I said. My voice came out small. “I’m trying to not deal with it, because if I do, I might lose it. Today was a long day. I need to go home and hug my family, so I know they are still okay.”

“Of course,” he said, his voice carefully controlled.

I saw him close himself off. One moment Connor was there, and the next Mad Rogan reasserted himself.

We’d witnessed so much grief today. So much pain. Cornelius, Jeremy, the faces of Rogan’s soldiers . . . Forsberg. Two bodies on the street behind us. Dreams, futures, lives severed abruptly. I didn’t even know how to process it all. It had to have an effect on him—he wouldn’t be human otherwise—and I saw an imprint of today on his face: fatigue, grief, and grim determination in his eyes. He looked older; not worn, but rough, like he hadn’t slept for ages. He was still sharp, still deadly, but it was the dangerous edge of a predator backed into a corner after a long chase.

I would go to our warehouse and be surrounded by a warm human chaos. Someone would be cooking; someone would be watching TV or playing video games. My sisters would be sniping at each other; Leon would complain about his never-ending battle with the French language; then Grandma Frida would come in, smelling of engine grease and metal, and poke fun at my mother . . . I would wrap myself in these warm human connections and let them melt away the dark coldness of today.

Mad Rogan didn’t have anyone to go home to. He would return to his Zorro house, eat whatever someone brought him, and probably watch that recording again to see if there was anything he’d missed. He had all the power but it brought him no warmth. No human safety net that would catch him when he was sinking and help him keep his head above water.

I couldn’t let him do it.

“Have dinner with me,” I asked. “At my house. You can help me explain to my mother and grandmother what happened to my work vehicle.”

A hint of a grin touched his lips. His eyes lit up. “Do you think your mother might try to shoot me?”

“Possibly.”

“Then absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it.”

And he would be the politest dragon ever. Tail tucked in, fangs hidden, and talons carefully folded on his lap. I had just invited Mad Rogan to have dinner. Again. My poor mom.

Rogan’s phone chimed. He glanced at it and swore.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Luanne’s sister just arrived in Houston. I have to meet her.”

I tried to sort out the tangled mess of emotions. Was I relieved or disappointed? I wasn’t sure. “Rain check?”

“What time is dinner?”

“Usually around five thirty, six.”

“I can make it.”

I glanced at my phone. It was three fifteen. He could reasonably make it.

“Pull over,” Rogan said.

Troy took an exit and pulled into a gas station.

“I’ll be there,” Rogan promised.

“I’d like that.” I meant it.

He opened the door, stepped out, and bent down. “Take Ms. Baylor wherever she wants to go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rogan grinned at me and shut the door.

Troy pulled away. “Where to, Ms. Baylor?”

“Nevada. Would you mind making a small detour for me to pick up some takeout?”

“Your wish is my command,” Troy said.

Right. I dialed Takara’s number. My sisters would get their sushi after all.