Wildfire

Chapter 10

Once Leon finished throwing up, I told him to go inside and tell the hospital staff we needed help. It took six people to load Dave 2.0 onto a gurney and wheel him into the ER.

A hospital administrator, a plump Hispanic woman in her mid-forties, ran up to me, her face pale, her mouth a thin, tense line. “Should I call the cops?”

What would Rogan say? “It’s House business.”

She straightened. Some of the frantic agitation went out of her face. I’d said the magic words absolving her of all responsibility.

“I’ll notify the authorities,” I said. “Please see to the wounded.”

“What wounded? Everyone is dead.”

“See to my cousin, then.”

She turned around to where Leon sat on the curb. His skin had acquired a sallow greenish tint.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll do that.”

I walked over to Leon, crouched, and hugged him. He didn’t struggle or make disgusted noises. A really bad sign.

“You did great,” I told him.

“It wasn’t real before,” he said quietly.

“When you lined up shots for Mom?”

He nodded. “It’s real now. I killed them. They’re dead because of me.”

I had to fix this now, or it would cripple him. “No, I killed them. I ordered you to shoot, and you obeyed my order. This is on me, not on you.”

His hands were shaking.

“Leon, these people were attacking us. If you didn’t stop them, they would’ve dragged me off to Victoria Tremaine. They might have killed you. Our whole family would be in danger. You did the right thing. You didn’t run away. You saved me, and Mom, and Grandma, and your cousins and your brother. You saved all of us.”

A man in hospital scrubs came up and wrapped a blanket around Leon. I gently tucked the blanket around him.

“You did great.”

He looked up at me. “I did.”

“Yes. Mom will be so proud. My dad would be so proud. You defended us.”

“Okay,” he said.

Victoria would pay for this. I would make her pay.

“Did you get sick?” he asked.

“The first time I shot someone? I felt sick.”

“But did you throw up?”

“I didn’t have time. The building exploded and I passed out. But if I’d had a chance, I would’ve thrown up for sure. The first time I saw Rogan kill someone, I almost got sick on him. We were in the Pit and he dropped a building on this scumbag. Just cut a chunk of the building off and crushed him with it. It took me a long time to get over it.”

“Is it always this bad?”

“No. You grow numb to it.” The sound of David Howling’s neck breaking popped in my ears. Leon didn’t need to know about that. He didn’t ever need to know how that felt. I would move heaven and earth to make sure he never found out.

Two armored SUVs pulled into the parking lot and ejected Rivera and six of Rogan’s people. The cavalry had arrived in record time, but they were too late.

They raced toward me, Rivera barking orders. “Guard here, here, and there. I want no blind spots. If something aims for this parking lot, I want to know about it before it gets here.”

People peeled off from the group. He crashed to a halt before me. “Are you okay, Ms. Baylor?”

Define okay. “Everything is fine.”

“Where is Frank Madero?”

It took me a second to remember that he would be in constant contact with Bug and Bug would’ve identified Frank the moment he popped into existence. “In the ER.”

“Should we take him into custody?”

“No.”

Rivera looked uncomfortable. “Do you want guards on his room?”

“No.” He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

“Bug said there were survivors. Do you want us to chase them down?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

The four remaining ex-military badasses looked almost desperate.

“The Major was very specific.” Rivera’s face had the expression of a man walking across hot coals. “We’re supposed to render assistance and keep you safe. We weren’t here.”

Now it made sense. Rogan told them to guard me and they let me get attacked and got here after the fight was over. That’s why they were sweating bullets.

“When the Major returns, you can tell him that you did your job. There was an altercation, it’s over now, and I’m safe. If he asks about details, tell him to ask me.”

Rivera didn’t look convinced.

I sighed. “Would you like to render some assistance?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly did Rogan say you could help me with?”

“Anything you need.”

“Please gather the dead people and identify as many of them as possible. Someone teleported Frank in front of me, and it would be good to ID the teleporter mage. Please follow whatever protocol Rogan uses and notify the authorities that a violent confrontation took place between House Madero and Baylor family. If we could get Rogan’s legal department involved, it would be great, because I need to be home in the evening, and I can’t spend the rest of the day in the police station being interrogated. I also need phone numbers for the Madero family and Victoria Tremaine. I’d like new tires for the Vault. It’s worth two hundred and fifty grand and we’re going to take it home to my grandma. And once everything has been taken care of and the authorities release us, I would appreciate an escort home. That should keep the Major happy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

In less than a minute Bug texted the two phone numbers, one for House Madero, ruled by Peter Madero, and the other for Victoria Tremaine’s rented penthouse office suites at Landry Tower. I sat on the curb next to Leon and watched Rogan’s people move the corpses.

Madero or Tremaine first? Tackling Madero would be simpler. I’d looked them up after Dave’s attack. House Madero consisted of Peter Madero, the patriarch, who was in his seventies; his daughter-in-law Linda; and her sons David, Frank, Roger, and fourteen-year-old twins, Ethan and Evan. Roger was married and his wife was pregnant.

Judging by Dave and Frank, their grandpa Peter would be nasty and tough as nails. First, he sent his grandson after me and Rogan, then after Rogan made an origami crane out of Dave, he sent his other grandson. Peter didn’t give up easily, but he didn’t survive this long without some wisdom.

I dialed the number and put the call on speaker.

“House Madero,” a woman chirped into the phone.

“This is Nevada Baylor. Let me speak with the Head of the House.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“I’m the person who just put Frank into the ER. Put the call through.”

There was a pause, then a gruff male voice came on the line. “So you’re the bitch Tremaine wants.”

Aha. I’ve got your number. “Charming. Your family is short on brains, so I’ll say this slowly. Frank is in the Houston Memorial ER. I put him there. If he makes it, he’ll tell you that he brought twelve people with him against me and my sixteen-year-old cousin. Eight of your people are dead. Four ran off. I’m taking your fun wagon as spoils of war.”

“You fucking whore.”

“That will be Prime whore to you.”

Peter Madero choked on his own spit.

Rivera and Leon stared at me.

“I don’t know if Tremaine promised you money and you’re just greedy and stupid, or if she has something on you and you’re scared, but I’m her granddaughter. Flesh and blood. Think about it.”

“I ain’t scared of you or your memaw.”

“So far one of your grandsons has both arms in casts, and the other might be dying. I need to know if you’re going to drop the contract or try again. Because if you’re trying again, I’m going to let Mad Rogan’s people take custody of Frank.”

“I’ll tear your throat out and shit down your neck.”

“You didn’t survive to your seventies because you made bad business decisions. You send Roger after me, his baby will grow up without a father. You know it, and I know it. Who’s left? The twins?”

“I’ll do it myself.”

“No, you won’t. You had a triple bypass three months ago. Frank and Dave both could barely breathe three minutes into the fight. I won’t have to fight you, I’ll just run circles around you until your body gives out. And then where would the family be?”

“You stay out of my business!”

“I need a decision about Frank. I can’t sit here all day. Also, what do you want to do about your dead people?”

“You give me my bus back, and I’ll think about dropping the contract.”

“No, that’s my bus. I earned it fair and square.”

He swore.

“Just admit you’re beat, you cantankerous old bastard.”

“Fine. Leave our dead at the hospital; we’ll pick ’em up. And don’t let me find you there, or I’ll wring your scrawny neck.”

I hung up. Rivera was looking at me like he’d never seen me before.

“I had a client like that once,” I told him. “The only way to win his respect was to meet him on his playing field and give as good as you got.”

I stared at my grandmother’s number. Some sort of response had to be made. She attacked us for the second time. Do I call and issue an ultimatum? Do I call the Office of Records and complain? Would this make us look weak or would we look weaker by not complaining and just letting her continue to terrorize us?

Leon huddled next to me. Rivera studied him for a moment and spoke into his headset. “Kurt? Find me.”

A moment later a gruff-looking man walked up to us. He had a dense red beard and shoulders that wouldn’t fit through the door. He glanced at Leon and nodded. “Come with me.”

Leon got up and followed him.

“What’s going on?”

“Kurt is our PTSD specialist,” Rivera said. “He’s an ex–Navy SEAL, highly decorated.”

“And with a high kill count?” I guessed.

Rivera nodded. “Leon needs help, and Kurt will be able to help him. He knows the right things to say.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“He’s a talented kid,” Rivera said, and walked away.

I looked at my phone. I needed some advice. If Rogan was here, I might have gone to him, but even if I did, he could decide to go and have a personal chat with Victoria Tremaine. So far he had been almost painfully careful about not stepping on my toes, but he nearly lost it when I came to him to ask about how to handle Augustine. He came close to killing his friend—probably his only friend—for my sake.

No, I needed a neutral third party. Someone who had no trouble navigating House waters, but had no personal stake in the matter. I scrolled through my contacts. There it was, Linus Duncan. Once the most powerful man in Texas. He said to call if I needed any advice. Cornelius thought the world of him, and Rogan respected him.

I dialed the number.

“Hello, Ms. Baylor,” Linus Duncan said into the phone in his rich, slightly amused baritone. “How may I help?”

“I need some advice.”

“Is the matter urgent?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at Houston Memorial.”

“Are you injured?”

“No. But I just survived a second attack by Victoria Tremaine.”

There was a small pause.

“You’re right,” Linus said, a note of concern slipping into his voice. “The matter is urgent. As I recall, Houston Memorial has a quiet coffee shop. I will be there in forty minutes.”

Sergeant Munoz peered at me. A stocky dark-haired man about twice my age, he looked like a cop, which is exactly what he was. Career cops had that odd air of ingrained authority and jaded world-weariness. They’d seen it all, they expected the worst-case scenario and crazy crap, and nothing surprised them anymore. If an alien landed in the parking lot and leveled a blaster at us, Sergeant Munoz wouldn’t bat an eye. He’d order it to raise its limbs and lie down on the ground, but he wouldn’t be surprised.

The parking lot had rapidly filled with cops. Sergeant Munoz took charge, and he clearly didn’t like what he saw.

“I know you. Longhorn Hotel, enerkinetic cheating on his wife.”

“Yes, sir.” It was a routine cheating spouse case until the wife showed up at the hotel to confront her husband against my explicit instructions. I had a strong feeling that if the cheating husband got his wife into the car, nobody would ever see her again, so I stepped in and got thrown into the wall for my trouble, before I managed to tase him.

“And now we have this.” He turned to the eight bodies laid out in a row. Each of them showed a single shot in the same exact spot.

“This is what we call a T-box kill. Do you know what a T-box is?”

“Yes.”

If you drew a vertical rectangle around the nose and a horizontal rectangle over the nose bridge that ended at the center of each pupil, you would get a T-shaped area. People thought that head shots were always lethal. They weren’t. Sometimes bullets bounced off a skull, or caused some brain damage but failed to kill the target. Sometimes they penetrated the skull but caused only a minor injury. But a shot to the T-box was always lethal. A bullet to the T-box scrambled the lower brain and brain stem, which control the automatic organ processes we require to live, such as breathing. Death was immediate. It was the surest and most merciful way to drop your target. The victim would never realize they were dying. Their last memory would be of a gun and then their brain would explode.

Leon had put one bullet into each of the eight people exactly between their eyes. Eight shots, eight instant kills.

A Harley-Davidson pulled into the adjacent parking lot. Its rider, in a black leather jacket and jeans, jumped off, pulled the helmet off her head, revealing a halo of black curly hair, and sprinted toward us. A black woman with medium brown skin, about thirty-five or so. A patrolman got in her way and she barked something at him and kept going.

“Did you line them up?” Sergeant Munoz asked. “Was this an execution?”

“No. This was self-defense. They were shot while running at us with their weapons out.”

Munoz looked at the corpses and back at me. “From how far away?”

“Don’t answer that!” the woman in leather snapped.

Munoz turned to her.

“Don’t answer anything.” She pulled an ID out and thrust it in front of Munoz. “My name is Sabrian Turner. I’m the legal counsel to House Rogan and future House Baylor.”

“We have multiple homicides. Your client needs to answer my questions.”

“You’re asking for information that’s privileged under the House Protection Act. And you’re doing it in the middle of the parking lot, where you can’t guarantee the information won’t be overheard. My client is under no obligation to disclose the exact extent and nature of her magic or the magic of her family members unless you can guarantee its confidentiality.”

Munoz clenched his jaw. “Your client isn’t a member of a House.”

“My client is registered to undergo the trials. Until she fails them, House protections and rights extend to her.”

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Under the same act, your client is supposed to offer full cooperation in cases where the safety of the public is in question.”

“What public? These people were hired by House Madero. This is House warfare.”

“Excuse me,” I said louder.

“I will be the judge of whether this is House warfare.”

Sabrian crossed her arms. “Oh really?”

“Hey!” I barked.

The two of them looked at me.

“There is a camera above us,” I said. “I’m sure it caught the whole thing.”

“We’ll get to that,” Munoz promised, and turned back to Sabrian. “Maybe I’ll just have to take your client somewhere more private.”

Sabrian narrowed her eyes. “My client will answer your questions when she chooses.”

“You should just get some swords and have it out,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, do you?” Linus Duncan said.

Munoz stepped aside, revealing Linus Duncan in a flawless black suit. A long blue scarf hung from his shoulders. He smiled, showing even white teeth against his dark beard, touched with silver. “After all, House Madero was involved, and we all know what that means. Excuse me.”

He stepped between Sabrian and Munoz and offered me his hand. I took it, and he helped me off the curb. “Ms. Baylor owes me a coffee. We’ll be in the hospital cafeteria if you need us.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Munoz said.

The coffee shop was small and intimate, furnished in rich brown and soothing beige, and only a third full. Linus and I stood in a short line. He ordered espresso and I settled on an herbal tea. My hands were trembling slightly, the aftereffect of adrenaline and nerves.

We took our order number and sat at an isolated table by the window. From there I had an excellent view of the pandemonium in the parking lot. At least Leon was safe. I seriously doubted that anyone could get past Kurt to talk to him.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your day,” I said.

Linus winked at me. “Please. Invitations for a coffee with an interesting young woman are rare at my age. How could I pass it up?”

I smiled. Something about Linus made me feel at ease. You knew that he was sincere and whatever he told you wouldn’t be a lie.

The barista brought our drinks and departed.

Linus sipped the jet-black brew out of a small white cup and tilted his head from side to side, thinking. He must’ve decided the espresso was adequate, because he took another small sip.

“Shall we talk about your grandmother?”

“What is she like?”

“Victoria? Smart. Ruthless. Determined. She thinks she’s always right and frequently is. This”—he glanced at the window—“is very unlike her. She prefers to operate quietly. She must be getting desperate.”

“Why?”

“You’re family,” he said. “Family is all any of us have. You’re her hidden legacy, the future of her House. Her parents died when she was only twelve. She wanted a child so badly. I saw her shortly after James was born. She seemed happy for the first time since I’d known her. She practically glowed.”

“She was horrible to my father.”

“I don’t doubt it. She’s demanding and difficult. She holds herself to the highest standard and never stops to consider that perhaps not everyone possesses the ability or will to match hers.”

“This is the second time she attacked us.”

“When was the first time?” he asked.

“Two days ago. Dave Madero chased Rogan and me in his Jeep.”

He sipped his espresso. “How did it end?”

“Rogan broke Dave’s arms in five places.”

Linus smiled. “If Dave Madero chased the woman I loved, I would’ve broken his legs as well.”

“Oh, he tried. I asked him not to.”

“You should’ve let him. House Madero has waged a war on subtlety for the last fifty years. They understand brute strength and clear messages.”

“That is almost word for word what Rogan told me.” I drank my tea through a straw. It tasted sour, but it was better than the metallic coppery patina on my tongue.

Linus sighed. “Rogan is well-versed in House politics. He’s been playing the game for a long time. He was born into it, and his instincts are usually right. However, he’s in a delicate position. Pardon me for inquiring, but have you discussed your potential future?”

I coughed.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Linus fixed me with his dark eyes. “Allow me to hazard a guess: he pushed and you pushed back. He pushed harder, and you set some boundaries and refused to back away from them.”

I managed to make a word. “Yes.”

“That was likely a new experience for him.”

“Yes.” I had a sudden urge to crawl under the table. It felt like I was twelve again and my mom decided to have the Talk with me. “Do you know him?”

“I knew his father when he was Connor’s age. We had business dealings together, mostly military contracts. Connor was twelve at the time, and I could tell by the way they butted heads that the apple didn’t roll far from the tree.”

True. I tried to imagine two Rogans and failed.

“Rogan is very conscious of the fact that you’ll soon be the Head of an emerging House. As the Head of his own House, he has certain ethical obligations, and he can’t obviously steer your entrance into our society, because he cares about you and he wants House Baylor to emerge as an independent entity, not a vassal of House Rogan. As a man who loves you, he doesn’t want to impose his will on yours, even when it’s in the interests of your safety, because he wouldn’t allow himself to be treated that way. He knows if he pushes too far, you’ll leave him. Unfortunately, you’re obviously a target in both the physical and emotional sense of the word. People want to kidnap you, manipulate you, and take advantage of your inexperience. He sees all of it, so he’s fighting a powerful urge to shove you into full body armor, lock you in a windowless room, and stand guard by it until the trials are over. I sympathize. I once had to go through a similar thing.”

True.

“It was a uniquely frustrating experience. It gave me grey hair. See?” He pointed to his temple.

I didn’t know what to say.

“My unsolicited advice would be to continue on your present course. You’ve terrified the Harcourts, stood up to Madero, and resisted Tremaine. You seem to be managing quite well.”

“What do I do about my grandmother?”

“What do your instincts tell you to do?”

I sighed. “She’s attacked me twice. It requires a response.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I thought about complaining to the Office of House Records, but it may make us look weak.”

“Do you want to be the child who runs to the teacher because someone pushed her on the playground?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. You have a choice. You can be seen as a House who relies on others or a House who handles its own problems. Leave your grandmother a message. Make it short and to the point.”

I flicked through my phone and dialed the second number Bug sent me.

“Trust your instincts,” Linus said, and smiled.

“TRM Enterprises,” a cultured male voice answered.

“Take a message for my grandmother,” I said.

He didn’t even pause. “Yes, Ms. Baylor.”

“House Madero is out. Your move.”

I hung up.

“Good,” Linus said, and sipped his espresso. “Things would be much easier if the two of you could sit down and talk.”

“She doesn’t want to talk. She wants to kidnap me and force me to serve her.”

“Victoria is practical. Eventually, she’ll come to the realization that she must settle, just as you’ll come to the realization that you can’t completely escape her. Surely the two of you can find some middle ground. Your grandmother just needs a slight push. If you met somewhere public and talked things out, you would come to a compromise.”

“What if she won’t compromise?”

“Then you’re no worse off than when you started.”

True.

“Would you like me to nudge her in the right direction?” he asked.

“Yes, but how do I know she won’t try anything?”

“You know because I’m giving you my word and personally arranging for your safety with Victoria. If she doesn’t agree to my terms, then there’s no meeting.”

“Okay.”

“Then it will be taken care of. And here comes the avenging angel with her flaming sword.”

Sabrian marched toward us and stopped. “Frank Madero came to and confirmed that this matter was House business. You are free to go.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded to me and walked away.

“Thank you,” I said to Linus.

“Of course. This is what I’m here for. It’s my function as your witness.” He grinned again. “Besides, things around you have a way of turning interesting. I do hate to be bored.”

We made it home a few minutes after 4:00 p.m. Mom was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Arabella sat at the kitchen table with her nose in her phone.

Mom saw Leon—he still looked a little green—and pinned me down with her stare. “What did you do?”

“I took him with me as backup,” I said.

“What happened?”

I made big eyes in Arabella’s direction. Mom refused to take the hint. “What happened?”

“Victoria Tremaine attacked us. She sent Dave Madero’s brother. And some people. I took care of Frank. Leon took care of the other people.”

There, that was nice and neutral.

Arabella got up and walked across the kitchen.

Mom opened the cabinet, pulled out the decanter filled with whiskey, and poured three shots into small shot glasses. “Are you okay?”

The intercom came on. “Leon killed somebody!” Arabella’s cheerful voice announced.

“I’m going to murder her,” I growled.

“Too late,” Mom said. “Brace yourselves.”

Doors opened and slammed shut inside the house. The Baylors had mobilized.

Mom put one shot glass in front of Leon and pushed the other toward me. “Drink.”

We drank. Liquid fire slid down my throat. Leon coughed.

Bern made it first. He tore into the kitchen, grabbed his brother by the shoulders, and shook him. “Are you okay?”

“He won’t be if you keep squeezing him like that,” Mom warned.

Catalina marched into the kitchen, her face outraged. “What happened?”

Grandma Frida came next. “Details! I want details!”

Arabella slunk back into the kitchen behind her.

I pointed my finger at her. “You’re dead.”

She shrugged.

“Will someone tell me the details?” Grandma Frida demanded.

“Ask Leon,” I told her.

Everyone looked at him. He gave an awkward one-shouldered shrug. “I couldn’t let them take Nevada.”

“Well?” Grandma Frida spun to me. “Is he as good as you?”

“Oh no. He’s better. Much, much better.” I took a USB stick out of my pocket. I made sure to get a copy of the footage from the hospital’s camera before I left. The hospital didn’t object. House business and all that. “Leon, do you want to let them see it?”

He thought about it. “Kurt said it might help to deal with it.”

I held up the USB stick. “We need a TV.”

We all stampeded into the living room, where I plugged the USB stick into the TV. The images of Leon and me walking filled the screen. The Vault vehicle charged into the parking lot. I paused the video.

“We got the Vault bus. It’s parked out back.”

Grandma Frida’s eyes lit up. “Good girl.”

“Press play!” Arabella ground out.

I pushed the button. On screen we spun around and ran for the door, Leon sprinting past me. Frank Madero popped into existence right in front of me. The family gasped.

On screen the shockers’ lightning looked like feathers. Fine white feathers that flickered into existence and licked Frank’s skin.

It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

Frank dropped to his knees. I let him go. He collapsed facedown. I stumbled, groping for my gun. People were running toward us.

Leon dashed into the frame next to me, the Sig 210 in his hands. He raised it and fired. I thought it took only a second. It was more like two or maybe two and a half. He fired as fast as he could pull the trigger.

Eight people dropped as if cut. The rest turned around and fled for their lives.

Nobody said anything.

“One shot, one kill,” Mom said finally.

“You think he ranks around Notable, like your father?” Grandma Frida asked her.

Mom squinted at the recording. “That’s what, fifty meters between them?”

“He’s higher.” I got out my phone and showed Mom a picture of two of the bodies.

Her eyes widened. “Every single one?”

I nodded.

“What?” Catalina asked.

“He shot them all between the eyes,” Mom said. “Instant kill. He did it at a fifty-meter distance, rapid fire. He is at least Significant.”

Grandma Frida whistled.

Bern grabbed Leon and crushed him into what could’ve been an excited brotherly bear hug or a judo submission hold. It was hard to tell for sure.

“This is special, Leon,” Mom said. “You’re special.”

Leon turned red in the face.

“You’re choking him,” I told Bern.

Bernard let go.

“Are you going to register for trials?” Arabella asked.

“No,” Leon said.

“What the hell is wrong with this family?” Arabella waved her arms. “Why would you not register?”

“Because I don’t need to,” Leon said. “It’s better that I don’t.”

“Why?” my sister wailed.

“Kurt explained it to me.”

Mom looked at me.

“Ex–Navy SEAL,” I explained. “Rogan’s PTSD specialist.”

“Sometimes bad shit happens, and you have to protect the people you love,” Leon said. “It would be nice if you can do that and keep your hands clean, but life doesn’t work that way. Life is messy, and sometimes you must do what needs to be done to keep your family safe. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

I’d have to thank Kurt.

“One day some other Prime will threaten our House, and when that day comes, I’ll kill him.”

What?

“I’ll do it quiet and clean, and nobody will ever know.” Leon smiled. “I’m going to be a dark horse, House Baylor’s secret. I’ll be the best assassin. A legend. They’ll never see me coming.”

I would kill Kurt. I would strangle him with my bare hands.

I stomped up the stairs to the second floor of Rogan’s HQ, where Heart and Bug waited for me. Napoleon saw my face and ran behind Bug’s chair to hide.

“Where is Kurt?” I growled.

Bug blinked. “I’m not sure I should tell you this information.”

“Bug!”

“Kurt is a valuable member of the team, and you have murder on your face.”

“What did he do?” Heart asked.

“He talked to Leon, and now my sixteen-year-old cousin has decided to be an assassin when he grows up.”

Bug pondered it. “Well, you have to admit it’s not a bad option for someone with his particular skill set.”

“Bug!”

“What else is he going to do? Competitive shooting?”

I looked for something to throw at him, but nothing was close.

“I doubt Kurt would suggest Leon become an assassin,” Heart said. “That’s not Kurt’s philosophy.”

“And, before you go on a warpath,” Bug added, “your dinner is in seventy-two minutes, so you’ll have to hunt Kurt down after your date with Garen.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Pardon me, your worship. I meant your business meeting in a romantic French bistro with a young single millionaire Prime for which you’re wearing a sexy pantsuit,” Bug said.

“I’m not wearing a sexy pantsuit, I’m wearing a run-away-fast-if-necessary pantsuit. For your information, I bought it at Macy’s, on sale, for two hundred dollars, because occasionally I have to do surveillance in the city and it makes me look like I’m on my way back to my cubicle. Garen Shaffer probably finds two hundred bucks when he empties loose change from his pockets.”

“Fine!” Bug raised his hands in the air. “I was wrong. What equipment are you carrying?”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“I just want to know if you’re packing good stuff or one of those cheap-ass ten-frames-per-second garbage cameras.”

“I’m a PI. Surveillance is my bread and butter.” Dad had always stressed the importance of good equipment, which was why I updated ours every year. “I’ll transmit live feed to Bern.”

“But I want to watch.”

“You can watch with Bern.”

“But my screens are bigger.”

I ignored him. “Where is Rogan?”

“Somewhere on I-10,” Heart said.

“I thought he said he would take a jet to Austin.”

“He did. There is a hailstorm and the planes are grounded. He’s driving back,” Bug said.

I really wanted to see him before the date. “Okay.”

“What precautions are you taking?” Heart asked.

“I’m bringing Cornelius, and he’s bringing Bunny.”

“Who’s Bunny?” Heart asked.

“Doberman.” Bug raised his hands, right hand above, left below, fingers curved and touching, imitating opening and closing jaws. “Teeth.”

“Molly’s Pub is in the same plaza,” Heart said. “Three of our people will be there. One of them is an aegis. How will they know if something goes wrong?”

“If I need help, I’ll cover the camera with my finger and hold it for a second. Bern knows what it means.”

“Good,” Heart said. “Then we’re ready.”

“I still say my screens are bigger,” Bug muttered.

I walked into Bistro le Cep at five to six. The reviews described it as cozy, quaint, traditionally European, and they didn’t lie. White walls offering French-themed art; white ceiling, crossed by golden pine rafters; large windows. Elaborate pine shelves showcased dark wine bottles. Rows of tables, each covered with a red tablecloth, topped with white linen, and flanked by padded chairs, offered comfortable seating. The stagecoach lanterns glowed softly with intimate light. The busy streets of Houston faded. It was like stepping into a different world.

The restaurant was two-thirds full. Cornelius sat two tables down from the entrance, on the left. Bunny discreetly lay at his feet. Normally, getting a dog into any restaurant in Houston would be out of the question, unless it was a service animal, but people made exceptions for animal mages.

A manager smiled at me. “Good evening. Mr. Shaffer’s party?”

“Yes.”

“This way, please.”

He led me around the pine shelves to a different section of the restaurant. Garen sat at an out-of-the-way table, engrossed in his menu. He wore a grey suit that fit him like a glove. His blond hair had that slightly tousled look that happened when you casually dragged your hand through a thousand-dollar haircut. He held himself with a quiet, effortless self-assurance; there was nothing flashy about him. When Rogan walked into the room, his presence punched you. He emanated danger. Garen emanated . . . I wasn’t even sure what it was. Charm seemed too smarmy to describe it. You just knew that this was a man who was perfectly comfortable in his own skin and sure of his place in the world. He was always where he was supposed to be, he wasn’t easily rattled, and if he showed up to a formal event in jeans and a T-shirt, they would let him in without a pause. He would still look elegant, and everyone else would feel horribly overdressed.

He raised his head. Our stares connected. Garen smiled.

Wow.

I bet he would order in French.

Garen stood and held out my chair. The royal treatment. I smiled and sat.

“You came,” he said.

“I said I would.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

True. I took out my phone and put it on the table next to me. He glanced at it.

“Sorry,” I told him. “Work.” Also, the hidden camera in the side of the phone case now had an excellent view of him and sent live feed to Bern. It was a better camera than the one hidden behind the left lapel of my suit, but it was best to have the feed from both in case one of them decided to suddenly die.

“No worries.”

A waiter appeared, smiling, introduced himself, and brought complimentary toast and pâté. I ordered water. Garen did the same.

“Wine?” he asked.

“Your preference.”

He glanced at the wine list and murmured something to the waiter, who nodded and departed.

“I always feel uncomfortable ordering wine for the table,” Garen said.

True. “Why?”

“Because it’s so subjective. The taste of wine has very little to do with the price. Some people train their palate for years to become connoisseurs and some just want a delicious drink. I’ve been at a dinner where the host opened a five-thousand-dollar bottle of Riesling. It tasted like oak bark soaked in vinegar.”

I laughed.

“And the man looked straight at me while I tasted it. I knew I had to say something.”

“What did you say?”

Garen leaned forward, nodding. “Oh I lied through my teeth. I think I told him it was exquisite.”

Oh my, Mr. Wolf. What lovely eyes you have and delightful stories you tell. I can barely see the fangs. “One-word lies are the easiest.”

“Yes, they are.”

The drinks arrived. The waiter opened a bottle of white wine and poured some into the two glasses.

“Please,” Garen invited me.

The wine tasted clean and sweet. “I like it.”

I felt a light flick against my skin. Garen had truth-checked me. He was smiling.

The waiter filled our glasses and politely asked for the starter order. I went for the seared scallop.

“Make that two,” Garen said, and we were again alone.

He studied me, smart green eyes careful. “Let’s make a pact for tonight.”

“Mmm?”

“Let’s be honest with each other.”

“How honest?”

“Brutally. Ask me any question, and I’ll answer honestly. No shields, no attempt to block the probe. I ask the same in return.”

I swirled the wine in my glass. “That’s a dangerous game.”

“I realize that.”

“You won’t like my questions,” I said.

“I like to live on the edge.”

We faced off across the table, like two gunfighters, armed with glasses of wine instead of six-shooters.

“Go ahead,” he dared me.

“Have you or a member of your family ever lifted a hex with the purpose of finding the third piece of an artifact, which was located in the statue in the Bridge Park?”

I had considered that question carefully. That’s how the conspiracy showed itself the first time. They made a deal with a rogue Prime called Adam Pierce. Pierce wanted to burn Houston down, but he needed an artifact to amplify his power. The location of the artifact was a closely guarded secret, entrusted to the Emmens family. All members of that family, trusted with this knowledge, had a hex implanted in their minds to protect them from disclosing their secret. The members of the conspiracy had kidnapped the youngest member of the family and pried that knowledge out of his mind, despite the hex, the same way I had done with the oldest member of the family, except in my case he had volunteered to help me save Houston.

A truthseeker had cracked the hex in the younger Emmens, and I wanted to know if Garen was that truthseeker. Asking him about the Emmens family was useless. He may not have been told the name of the man whose mind the conspirators wanted unlocked. However, if Garen had anything to do with breaking the hex, he would know the location of the object.

“I don’t know what this is about, but that is oddly specific. No.”

True. Relief washed through me. Surprising. I didn’t realize that on some level, I liked him. I didn’t want him to be connected to the conspiracy.

He studied me, a hint of predatory anticipation in his eyes. Despite all his charm and disarming honesty, Garen was a Prime. “My turn. Are you really Victoria Tremaine’s granddaughter?”

“Yes.”

The waiter appeared with our appetizers and asked for our orders.

“Red snapper,” I said.

“Medallion de Marcassin à l’aigre-doux.”

I won the bet. He did order in French.

The waiter departed.

“Let’s continue,” Garen said. “Your move.”

“What is the significance of a wavy line?”

“I don’t follow.”

“When you’re facing someone with hard mental defenses, and you want to loosen their will instead of bashing through it by brute force, you draw a wavy line inside the amplification circle. Why do people freak out when they see it?”

Garen stared at me for a second, picked up his glass, and gulped all of the wine in one swallow. “Have you done this?”

“Yes. Answer the question.”

“They freak out, because it’s a spell of House Tremaine. Nobody else does it.” He leaned forward, focused on me. “How do you determine the pattern of the waves?”

“You tailor it to the specific defenses of the person. By feel.”

“I knew it.” He slapped the table lightly. “I knew it. We’ve been trying to duplicate it for years. Will you show me?”

“Maybe. It’s your turn.”

He thought about it. “In the office, when I asked you the last question about me being an only child, did you know I was lying?”

“Yes.” I cut a small piece off my scallop. It was getting cold, and it looked delicious. It would be a shame to waste it.

He leaned back in his chair. His eyes were shining and it wasn’t all wine. “Your turn.”

“Why did you come here, Garen?”

He paused. “I came to find out if you were the real thing.”

“I know that. That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s a more complicated question.”

Our food appeared. The red snapper looked divine and smelled even better, but I barely noticed.

Garen waited until we were alone again. “As I said, I came to find out if you were the real thing. If I determined you lied or your magic wasn’t of high enough caliber, I would have been on a plane home already.”

“But you’re still here.”

“I am.”

He pondered the meat medallion on his plate.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Wild boar. Would you like to try?”

“No, thank you.”

“I understand you and Rogan have a history,” he said. “A tumultuous, violent history, very exciting but full of danger, fear, and uncertainty.”

“Yes.”

“Has he requested your profile?”

“No.”

“Then he is a blithering idiot.”

I tried my snapper to keep from responding. It melted on my tongue.

“I probably shouldn’t have said that,” he said, “but it’s too late now.”

I smiled. “Are you afraid he overheard?”

“No. But you obviously care for him, and I don’t want to alienate you. I’ve made some inquiries. I’m sorry about your father.”

Well, that was a 180-degree turn. “Thank you.”

“You took over a struggling PI firm on the brink of failure and you saved it. You didn’t overextend and grow too fast, hiring people to churn through as many cases as you could. Instead you concentrated on quality. You were instrumental in saving Houston from Adam Pierce, yet you stayed out of the limelight. I suspect that being quietly competent is much more important to you than being the flavor of the month. Am I right?”

“Yes. We didn’t need that kind of attention. Our caseload is small but perfectly manageable. Our business puts food on the table.”

“You take care of your family. I do the same thing. I took over after my father was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I was eighteen. When I’d done an audit and realized how deep the problem lay, our firm was in serious jeopardy. For the next twelve years I lived and breathed Shaffer Security. I know exactly what it costs. You put your life on hold, and you get up every morning and plow through it, fixing it, building it up block by block, case by case, client by client. You lay awake at night, wondering how you’ll pay the bills. It takes dedication and perseverance. So when some idiot with a microphone comes along and shoves it in your face, wanting you to give him a good ten-second sound bite about a case you worked for eight months, you walk away, because that’s not what your work is about.”

“Baylor Investigative Agency prides itself on discretion. Our clients expect confidentiality.”

He nodded. “Going on TV and making the talk show circuit would send the wrong message.”

“Yes.” He did get it. “Did you save your company?”

“Yes. We’re the second-biggest security firm in the United States. MII is the third. Augustine Montgomery has been snapping at my heels for years.” Garen smiled. “Unfortunately for him, he’s destined to stay an ankle biter.”

The snapper went the wrong way down my throat. I coughed.

Garen grinned. “I thought you might like that. On a serious note, my personal net worth is over four hundred million and it’s rising. The company is valued at over a billion.”

“Why did you tell me that?”

“Because we promised to be honest with each other, and I want you to have all of the pertinent information, so you can make an informed decision.”

I paused with the glass in my hand. “Is there a decision at the end of all of this?”

“Yes. I’m asking you to marry me.”

It was so good that I wasn’t drinking when he said it. “You don’t know me, Garen. I don’t know you. Help me understand this.”

“Marriage is a partnership. I think we will be good partners. We’re similar. We both value family, integrity, and competence. We do the same type of work, and we dedicate ourselves to it. We care about reputation rather than fame. We’re both careful, because we know what’s at stake. I think we would be a good match.”

“And genetics have nothing to do with it?”

He sighed. “Genetics have everything to do with it. If you were a flighty opportunist, I still would’ve seriously considered it, given your set of genes.”

“The pickings are slim, I take it?”

“Yes. We’re a rare breed, and when we step outside of our own type of magic, there is always a risk of diluting the power.”

“Wouldn’t it have been wise to at least wait until the trials, so you would know for certain?”

He put his fork down. “I don’t need the trials. I know you’re a Prime. You drew the Tremaine wave without even knowing what it is. That suggests that your ability is genetic, and it will be passed on to your children. That is gold.”

“Mhm.”

“Does it bother you that we’re discussing this as if the two of us were a rare type of cattle we’re considering breeding?”

“Of course, it bothers me. I’m a human being, Garen. I have dreams and expectations. I want to marry for love, not for my genes.”

“So do I.”

True.

He sighed. “But there is always that catastrophic moment when expectations meet cold, hard reality. I can guarantee that our children will be powerful Primes. That’s a rare opportunity for both of us. You’re an emerging House. You’ll need to form alliances to survive. You’ll need to invest in security and personnel for yourself and your family members, which means startup capital. You’ll need to learn to navigate the shark-infested waters of the Houses. You’ll need training. You may be naturally stronger than me. We won’t know this until we truly grapple. But in a life or death struggle, I would kill you. I have the knowledge and experience of using my magic, and you lack both. Marriage to me would guarantee that all of those needs would be taken care of.”

A lot of what he said made sense. “And what’s in it for you?”

“A partner who truly understands me. Someone who will be loyal, who will work with me toward common goals. Someone who will grow with me, who will be an asset. A fascinating, intelligent woman. Someone who will be a remarkable mother.” He paused. “The relationship with me will be honest, Nevada. I won’t lie to you. I can’t, but even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. We both know it’s a double-edged sword, but it’s best we put it all out here now.”

“I don’t love you, Garen,” I said gently.

“I know. Like you said, we don’t know each other. But you’re attracted to me. I’m attracted to you. It’s a good start. Given time, we’d come to love each other. I’ve seen it happen before. That’s the way it happened for my parents. My childhood was idyllic, because my father loved my mother and treated her with respect, and she loved him and offered the same respect back. Neither of them had affairs. They lived happily, until my father’s illness and eventual death three years ago. Arranged marriage can succeed.”

“I don’t want to marry because I tick all of the right boxes.”

“Isn’t that the criteria for all marriage? You marry someone precisely because they tick all of your boxes.”

“I’m in a relationship with someone else,” I said.

He pushed his plate away and leaned forward. “I said I didn’t want to criticize Rogan, but I may have to go back on my word. I really want this, Nevada. This is my opportunity of a lifetime.”

Wow. So slick.

“Rogan is larger than life. High impact. Dangerous, and that danger can carry a certain allure. But he’s also unpredictable and ruthless. He measures everyone by his own standards. He’ll put you in danger assuming you can handle it, and he’ll fail to notice the moment you can’t. I would do everything in my power to keep you from being put into a dangerous situation in the first place, because that’s what a husband is supposed to do. Ask yourself, would he be a good husband? A good father? Would he be able to control his temper? We both come from large families. You know how crazy your younger siblings can make you. Think of him in the role of a caregiver. Think of all that stress. Would you feel safe leaving the children with him? Would you feel safer leaving them with me?”

He was really good at this. Much better than I expected.

“I offer security, stability, and comfort. He offers excitement, danger, and risk. I offer marriage, a formal agreement which gives you rights and protections. He hasn’t even considered it.”

Garen leaned forward and touched my hand with his elegant fingers. The personal connection.

“Nevada, the bottom line is that Rogan and I want two different women. I want the smart, confident, cautious woman who built her own business, who understands loyalty and integrity. He wants a warrior, someone who can go toe-to-toe with him into whatever latest high-risk venture he wants to plunge into. He wants someone people will be afraid of. To put it crudely, he gets off on it. If you accept me, you’ll become the head of a Fortune 500 corporation with me, with all of the influence and security that position brings. If you stay with him, you will become your grandmother. You have to decide who you want to be. In the end, it’s all about family.”