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  “He attacked Rynda Sherwood in her house,” Rogan said. “He slaughtered her guards, he critically injured her brother-in-law, and then he tortured him in front of his six-year-old niece and four-year-old nephew. He would’ve killed the children.”

  “You don’t know that,” Alyssa snapped.

  “I do,” I said. “I was there.”

  She didn’t even look at me. Clearly, I wasn’t important enough to warrant an answer.

  “Bring on your tortures.” Ella crossed her arms on her chest. “We are ready.”

  Rogan sighed, pulled out a piece of chalk, and offered it to me. I took it.

  The beautiful Persian rug slid aside. I crouched and drew a simple amplification circle. They watched me. I stood inside it and concentrated. Before I started, I had to assess their strength.

  My magic washed over them. I sank into it, looking for a way to fine-tune it. I had done this once before, with Baranovsky, another Prime, when I was looking for Nari’s killer and trying to pull the information out of his mind. My magic moved, shimmering in my mind’s eye. Come on . . .

  There. The magic fell into place with an oddly satisfying inaudible snap. In my head, the four of them glowed with pale, almost silver light, each mind a spot of darkness.

  Strong-willed. Every single one of them. They were exhausted, but their mental defenses were strong. Who would be the most likely to know about Vincent? It had to be the father. Owen was the Head of the House. He would want to keep tabs on his son.

  I wrapped my magic around Owen, letting it saturate him. He stiffened. Wow. His mind was a wall. If I barreled through with brute force, he would fight me every step of the way. I wasn’t sure there would be a mind left after I was done.

  “Today!” Liam snapped.

  “Hush,” I told him. “I’m trying to make sure you still have a father after I finish.”

  The Harcourts glared at me.

  “Who is this idiot?” Alyssa demanded.

  His wall was strong. Hard, dense, heavy, like granite. But granite was also brittle. Hit it the right way and it fractured. I needed to hit it the right way.

  Like a wave. A wave that battered the pier.

  I felt an urge to draw a wave within the circle. I had never seen that anywhere before. But I needed it. I needed the pattern. The magic wanted it.

  I crouched down and let it flow through me. The white line stretched from the tip of my chalk, a perfect sine wave all the way along the inner boundary of the circle.

  Ella Harcourt gasped.

  Magic punched me, strong and pure, like a clear mountain spring.

  “Where is Vincent?” the voice that came out of my mouth didn’t belong to a human being.

  Liam stared at me, his eyes horrified. Owen’s will fought mine, and I sent the first wave into him. It smashed against his mental wall and cracked it.

  “A Tremaine!” Ella jumped to her feet, disgust and horror on her face. “You brought a Tremaine here? Are you out of your mind? This is too much even for you!”

  “Oh God.” Alyssa clamped her hand over her mouth. “Oh God.”

  Liam turned white.

  “I love my father.” Alyssa swallowed, words coming out too fast. “He’s the only one I have. Please, please don’t take him from us. Please!” She spun around. “Mom!”

  “We’ll tell you whatever you want,” Ella said. “Just make that abomination release my husband.”

  Rogan turned to me. “How would you like to proceed?”

  They were looking at me, a mixture of panic, disgust, and utter desperation on their faces. I was the monster in the room.

  “Abomination?” I asked. “You forced hundreds of creatures from another world into a needless slaughter to protect your sick psychopath. He let his summoned creatures eat people alive. I watched one of them dig in Edward Sherwood’s stomach for juicy tidbits while two children hugged their mother, too scared to cry. Your precious Vincent called me and promised to murder my mother, my baby sisters, my cousins, and my grandmother. But I’m an abomination? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you even human?”

  Owen moved within the grip of my magic. Words came out of him slowly, with great effort. “House . . . Harcourt . . . no . . . ill will . . . to . . . your . . . family.”

  Liam covered his face with his hands. His shoulders trembled.

  “Let him go,” Alyssa begged. “Please let him go.”

  Ella Harcourt took a step back. “Please.”

  I pulled my magic back to me. Owen collapsed in his chair, breathing deeply.

  They all crowded around him, as if trying to shield him from me. I felt sick.

  “Where is he?” Rogan asked.

  “We don’t know,” Ella said.

  “She’s telling the truth,” I told him. “Vincent kidnapped Rynda’s husband. He wants something from her. What?”

  Owen shook his head. “We don’t know.”

  Damn it.

  “He didn’t do this on his own,” Rogan said. “Vincent isn’t one for elaborate schemes. He prefers brute force. Someone is pulling his leash. Someone with enough power to keep him in check.”

  “I agree with you,” Owen said.

  “So you know who that is?”

  The patriarch of House Harcourt drew himself up straight in the chair. “Do you think that if I had any idea where my son is or who he is with, I wouldn’t have taken steps? We don’t serve other Houses. We stand on our own. Do you think I would allow my heir to fall under the influence of another Prime?”

  “Alexander Sturm,” Liam said.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “He’s with Alexander Sturm. Sturm has a collection of medieval swords. He owns an Oakeshott XIIIa sword, a Grete War Sword. It’s a precursor of a Scottish claymore. The one Sturm has is supposed to be the true sword of William Wallace. Vincent sent me a picture of him with it two days ago.”

  Owen and Rogan swore.

  Chapter 8

  I sat in an armored carrier. Outside, Rogan’s ex-soldiers were loading the grinder’s cylinders onto the transport. It took twelve of them to safely lift and carry one. Rogan lingered with the Harcourts. Apparently, there were some papers to sign. We all had engaged in a massive slaughter, and now we had to formalize it. That part of House warfare never made sense to me. I’d never forget the moment when Rogan and Cornelius bargained over who would retain the right to kill Cornelius’ wife’s murderer and then drew up a contract spelling out their agreement.

  Even inside the vehicle, the air smelled like gore. If I bent forward, I could see the remains of the bodies.

  Rogan climbed into the carrier and sat next to me, leaning against the bulkhead, his helmet off, his eyes closed. For a while we sat next to each other.

  “Did you get the papers?”

  He nodded. “They signed a no-retaliation agreement. They legally acknowledge that they were at fault and promise to not pursue the matter further.”

  “Is it going to stick?”

  “Yes. If they break it, the sanctions from the Assembly will be severe.”

  I nodded and looked away.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Do you think they made these monsters up out of nothing, or is there an actual place, another world, they pulled them from?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “So much death, Connor. For so little.”

  He reached over and squeezed my hand.

  “Is that how people will see me?” I asked. “An abomination.”

  “That’s how they see your grandmother. About two decades ago Victoria Tremaine went on a rampage,” Rogan said. “It was before my time, but I asked my mother and she remembers it.”

  I glanced at him.

  “What?”

  “Your mother? I thought you were estranged?”

  He frowned. “No. I talk to her every week.”

  “Why isn’t she . . . involved in all of this?”

&nb
sp; He shrugged. “She doesn’t want to be. My mother survived more assassination attempts than several heads of state put together, played the House politics, and after my father died and I came back to take over, she decided that she was done. Can you blame her?”

  I glanced at the bloody pile of animal body parts. “No.”

  “As I said, my mother remembers your grandmother’s reign of terror. Victoria Tremaine cut a wide swath through the Houses. Primes would disappear and then turn up babbling like idiots, their minds fried. People would be snatched off the street, hauled before her, and interrogated. Those who survived called it mental rape. It took them a long time to recover. Some never did. My mother thinks Victoria must’ve made a deal with the feds, because they let her go on unchecked for far too long. Rumors said she was looking for something, but nobody who’d managed to escape her claws was in any shape to talk about it.”

  “She was looking for my father.” The timing was about right.

  “I think so.” Rogan stretched his shoulders. Something popped in his chest. He grimaced. “You’re not Victoria, Nevada.”

  “But I am. Did you see how they looked at me?”

  “Yes. They are afraid of you.”

  “Terrified. They are terrified and disgusted.”

  He grinned, a dragon baring his fangs. “Yes.”

  He didn’t seem upset by that. I’d terrified the Harcourts. I was the terrible abomination, and they were willing to spill their darkest secrets just to keep me out of their minds.

  Oh.

  “Is it going to get around?”

  “Possibly. Your name was on the Verona Exception packet.” He looked unbearably pleased with himself.

  It would get around. By tonight, the movers and shakers of Houston would know that future House Baylor took their root from Victoria Tremaine. The number of Houses who were considering taking us down once our grace period was done just got cut by a good percentage.

  “She will be livid. Now everyone will know that we’re rebelling against her.”

  “Livid, yes. Also proud,” Rogan said. “You walked in and made a combat House with four Primes submit without lifting a finger. Your grandmother will quite enjoy that.”

  He looked like he was enjoying it too.

  I leaned closer to him. “What about you, Rogan? Are you afraid of sleeping with an abomination?”

  He smiled, his blue eyes light, raised his hand, and brushed a loose strand of blond hair from my cheek. “When we were at the lodge, and you were dancing in the snow, I kept wondering why it wasn’t melting. You’re like spring, Nevada. My spring.”

  Rivera stomped up the ramp into the carrier. “We’re good to go, sir.”

  “Move out,” Rogan said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rivera stomped out and barked, “Move out! We’re done here.”

  I pulled my phone out. Dead. I should’ve charged it this morning. There goes my intelligence gathering.

  “What’s the deal with Alexander Sturm?” I asked, as the transport began to fill with people.

  “He’s a Prime,” Rogan said.

  You don’t say. “What sort of magic?”

  “He’s a dual fulgur and aero Prime, highest certification in both.”

  Holy crap. Alexander Sturm controlled both wind and lightning. “Nice name.”

  “His great-grandfather legally changed his name when he established the House,” Rogan said.

  The big vehicle rumbled into life. We were off.

  “How powerful is he?”

  Rogan’s face snapped into his Prime face, neutral and calm. “When I was two, my father met with some other Heads of the Houses to discuss the strategy they were going to push through the Assembly in response to the Bosnian conflict. They met in a concrete reinforced bunker, sunken twenty feet into the ground, because some of them were paranoid about surveillance.”

  “Okay.”

  “Gerald Sturm got upset that he wasn’t invited. He created an F4 tornado and held it in place for eighteen minutes. The tornado partially dug out the bunker, ripped off part of the wall and the roof, and hurled it over a hundred feet. Maxine Abner was sucked out through the gap. She was a hopper and she managed to pulse-jump away, but the fall broke both of her legs.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Eventually, Gerald ran out of steam. When the tornado died, there were nine pissed-off Primes. Gerald had to pay restitution and publicly apologize. But my father never forgot sitting in that bunker while the sky roared above. Neither did anyone else who was there. Alexander Sturm is more powerful than his father.” Darkness crept into Rogan’s eyes. “We’ll have to adjust our defenses.”

  The carrier stopped. My mother boarded, followed by Leon. She was still calm, her face serene. Leon had a dreamy look on his face. The last time I saw it, he was seven and we took him to Disney World.

  “How was it?” I asked.

  My cousin smiled at me. “Glorious.”

  Mom rolled her eyes.

  Rogan’s phone rang. He answered it.

  “Slow down, Rynda, I can’t understand you. . . . Okay. Put it on ice. We’re on the way.”

  He hung up. His face was grim. “They sent her Brian’s ear.”

  The ear came in a Ziploc bag in a plain yellow padded envelope. It was addressed to Rynda and me and dropped off in front of the security booth on Gessner Street. She left the ear in the bag. I did the same, except I slid the bag onto a piece of white paper to examine it.

  The ear was Caucasian and had been severed in a single precise cut, the kind an experienced surgeon might make with a scalpel. The cut bothered me. Things weren’t adding up.

  We were in Rogan’s HQ on the second floor. The moment we arrived, people ran up to the carrier with urgent looks on their faces and Rogan took off with them, which left me to deal with the ear.

  Rynda had been waiting all this time in the tender care of Bug, who was looking slightly freaked out. At least they had the presence of mind to get a cooler and fill it with ice.

  “It’s not going to get fixed, is it?” Rynda asked, her voice dull. “We’re not going to get through this okay.”

  “You will,” I told her. “Did Brian have pierced ears, scars, tattoos, anything that would let us confirm it’s his ear?”

  “Please don’t ask me if it looks like my husband’s ear,” Rynda said in a small voice.

  “Are you registered with Scroll?”

  She blinked, taken aback. “Yes?”

  “Please request DNA analysis on the ear. Let’s confirm it belongs to Brian.”

  “Why would they send me someone else’s ear?”

  And that was the million-dollar question.

  “I’d like to be thorough.”

  She rose. “I’ll make the call. I’m going to go check on the kids now. They don’t know. Please don’t tell them.”

  “I won’t.”

  I watched her go down the stairs. She seemed so frail now. I half expected her legs to give out. That poor woman.

  I puzzled over the ear some more.

  Bug sidled up to me. “What’s the deal with the ear?”

  “I’ll tell you but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”

  “I can fill this room with things I keep to myself.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Sit down.”

  He sat on the couch. I took a pen off the coffee table. “Let’s say you’re restrained, so hold your hands together.”

  He clamped his hands into a single fist.

  I showed him the pen. “Pretend this is a knife.” I grabbed his head with one hand and moved to “cut” his ear. He jerked away.

  “See?”

  “This doesn’t explain anything.”

  I picked the bag up gently and showed him the ear. “One precise cut. No tears, no jagged edges, no nicks. He would have to be held completely immobile while this happened. Why immobilize someone’s head like that? You can
just hack the ear off.”

  “Maybe they sedated him.”

  “Why? He’s a botanical mage. He isn’t dangerous. Why go through the trouble? I don’t know about Sturm, but Vincent for sure would want to torment him. He gets off on control and fear. Besides, sedation is dangerous. You never know when the person might have an adverse reaction to it and die.”

  Bug pondered it.

  “There is another thing,” I told him.

  “What?”

  “Look at the ear.”

  He peered at it and gave it an intense once-over. “I don’t see it.”

  “I don’t either.”

  He squinted at me. “Will you just say it, Nevada, you’re driving me nuts.”

  “When you nick your ear, it bleeds. A lot.”

  “Yes. All head wounds bleed, so?”

  “Where is the blood?”

  He stared at the ear. “Huh. Did they wash it?”

  “If you wanted to terrify a man’s wife into paying a ransom, would you send her a bloody mutilated chunk of flesh that was hacked off his head, or would you send her this perfectly clean, surgically removed ear?”

  Bug blinked. “So what does it mean?”

  It meant one of two things. Either Brian was dead or it wasn’t his ear.

  “And?” Bug asked.

  “And I’m going home to think about it. Did you find anything on Rynda’s computers?”

  “No. Bern and I have been through them last night. He’s digging deeper today. There is nothing there. Pictures of the kids, a fungi database, Rynda’s holiday recipes . . .” Bug waved his arms. “So much domestic bliss, I could puke.”

  “Tell me if you find something, please.”

  “No, I was going to keep it all to myself, but now that you asked me, I guess I’ll clue you in.” Bug rolled his eyes.

  “One day your face will get stuck like that,” I told him.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” he asked.

  “I’ve had a hard day. Don’t test me, Abraham.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it with a click at the name. That’s right. I do know your real name.

  “That’s playing dirty.”

  “It is.”

  “How did you know?”