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  He fixed me with his Mad Rogan stare. “If you find the connection between Brian’s disappearance and the conspiracy, I want to know about it. Not eventually, not when it’s convenient, but immediately.”

  “Yes, sir. I was going to kiss you good night, but now I can’t. It’s against the rules to fraternize with my superior officer.”

  “Hilarious,” he said.

  I opened the door and climbed out.

  “Nevada,” he called after me, sinking a world of promise into one word.

  I kept walking.

  His voice caressed me like a touch. “Come back and let me kiss you good night.”

  “I can’t hear you.” I sprinted to my door, got inside, and closed it. It was a big thick door. I couldn’t possibly have heard him laughing behind me. I must’ve imagined it. Yes, that was it.

  I walked through the house. The light in the kitchen was on. Voices floated to me. Everyone was still awake and waiting for me.

  Tomorrow I would have to go to BioCore and start looking for Rynda’s husband. Tomorrow I would see Rogan again. But first, I had to get through tonight. I sighed, squared my shoulders, and went to talk to my family.

  Chapter 3

  It was morning. Bright sunlight, cheery blue sky, and a massive headache hammer that pounded the inside of my skull. I’d popped two ibuprofens as soon as I’d clawed my eyes open, because I had things to do today, but they didn’t even make a dent.

  Last night I came home to all sorts of questions. And once I told them what happened, they came up with even more questions. My mother wanted to know about Victoria Tremaine, Leon wanted to know if he would eventually get a gun when we became a House, Catalina wanted to know about her trials, Arabella wanted to know if Michael was cute, and Grandma Frida said she met Linus Duncan once during the war and wanted to know if he still had that “hot, dark-eyed, Scottish thing” going. By the time I fought them off, it was close to two o’clock in the morning. I went upstairs, took off my clothes, fell into my bed facedown, and passed out. I dreamed of Rogan, woke up an hour later, and couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t in the bed. Now it was morning, and as I walked into our office, I felt like I was dragging a bulldozer behind me.

  Cornelius was already at his desk. He wore a dark grey suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His blond hair was neatly brushed back. Even at his worst, Cornelius always had a certain style. He was trim, neat, and calm. You’d never guess that the same man sang a horde of rats into devouring a living human being.

  Today no rats were in attendance, but Talon, his chicken hawk, perched on top of the bookcase, glaring at me with amber eyes.

  Cornelius raised his head from his laptop. His serious blue eyes widened. I was wearing a black Armani pantsuit over an expensive light grey blouse and Stuart Weitzman pumps, which had the wonderful advantage of being comfortable enough to run in, if the occasion required. My hair was straightened and pulled back from my face into a knot. My makeup was applied with all the skill I could muster, considering my headache.

  “You look like a CIA agent,” Cornelius observed.

  “Have you ever met any CIA agents?”

  “No. But I would imagine they would look like you.”

  “This is my inspire-confidence-in-clients look,” I told him. “I own two expensive suits. I wear one to the initial meeting and the other when I come to close the case and collect my payment. The rest of the time the suits hang in plastic in the back of my closet.”

  “Are you planning to impress a client?” he asked.

  “We already have a client. I need to impress her House. Her husband is missing, and if his family had something to do with it, I’d like them to consider me a serious threat, so they can focus on me instead of her. I would like you to come with me. It would be a good experience for you, and it would help my credibility.”

  “Of course.” Cornelius rose.

  “Our client is Rynda Sherwood. Formerly Rynda Charles.”

  He froze.

  “She showed up here last night,” I explained. “Her husband is missing.”

  Cornelius found his voice. “Does she . . . know?”

  “She knows that Rogan and I were present. She doesn’t know exactly how Olivia was killed or who did it. I understand if you would rather stay.”

  “But why would she come to you?”

  “Because all of her mother’s friends abandoned her, and House Sherwood doesn’t seem to be concerned about her husband’s disappearance. She truly has no place to go.”

  “Do you think this is connected to the conspiracy her mother was involved in?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe her husband is a stressed-out workaholic who snapped and decided to disappear for a few days.”

  Cornelius pondered it.

  “I also should mention that I filed to be recognized as a House.”

  He blinked again. “Congratulations.”

  “Victoria Tremaine is my grandmother,” I continued. “She was none too happy about this development, and while there are rules which prevent her from interfering, I can’t promise she won’t try something.”

  “Are you nervous?” Cornelius asked.

  “Yes.” There was no point in lying. “Given a choice, I would rather hide here until the trials, but I promised Rynda I’d look for her husband.”

  “You can’t hide,” Cornelius said quietly. “Your name is in the book. People are watching all of you, but especially you, to see what sort of House you’ll become. First impressions matter.”

  “First impressions?”

  Cornelius paused. “When the petition of House formation is filed, it’s read before the Assembly and, more practically, it’s announced in their internal newsletter.”

  Great. Every House in Texas would see our name in their email box. “So everyone knows?”

  “Yes. This is done to discourage interference from other Houses.”

  “Will they know what talents we are requesting to be tested?”

  “Yes.”

  So the cat was out of the bag. I had announced myself as a truthseeker to the entire state of Texas.

  “You will be watched,” Cornelius said. “The way you conduct yourself now is very important.”

  He was right. Hiding was out of the question. We couldn’t afford to look like cowards.

  I looked at Cornelius. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Are you in or out?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “In. Let me grab a travel cup for my coffee.”

  BioCore occupied a rectangular building of black glass off of Post Oak Circle, across from the Houstonian. Unlike the towers of downtown, this building was long, eating up a lot of real estate, but only a few stories high.

  Cornelius and I parked in front of it. A few weeks ago Rogan had destroyed my Mazda minivan by ripping it in half and throwing pieces at some mages who were attacking us. He’d replaced it with a blue Honda CR-V, which, I discovered after the fact, was armored to the gills. Grandma Frida had tons of fun tweaking it. If we faced magic and bullets, I’d just sprint to my car.

  I realized I was scanning the building, looking for hidden danger. My adventures with Rogan had made me paranoid.

  I crossed the lot to the heavy glass doors. Talon settled himself on Cornelius’ shoulder. Cornelius wore a pinched expression. I couldn’t tell if he was concentrating, nervous, or both. This wouldn’t do. I needed him to be calm and professional.

  “Have you thought of investing in a wooden leg and a tricorn hat?”

  He blinked. “No, why?”

  I pointed at his reflection in the glass door. He studied it.

  “I suppose Talon does very slightly resemble a parrot. I’m afraid I’m not much of a pirate though.”

  “It’s all in the attitude,” I told him. “Just imagine that this building is a Spanish galleon loaded with stolen treasure, and you are a captain of a pirate crew.”

  Cornelius studied himself some more, taking in his perfe
ctly styled hair, his clean-shaven face, and his expensive tailored suit, opened his mouth, and said, “Arrr.”

  I grinned and pushed the revolving door.

  Inside, a sterile, crescent-shaped lobby greeted us: white walls, ultramodern lights, and black marble floors. At the widest part of the crescent, a barely visible outline in the pale wall indicated a double door. To the left of it, two guards in olive green uniforms sat at the reception desk. The guards looked at us and gave Talon the evil eye. We approached the desk. I gave the guards my name and my card and asked to speak to Edward Sherwood. The shorter of the guards picked up the phone and spoke into it quietly.

  We waited.

  The doors whispered open and a tall man emerged. He was in his late thirties, with brown hair, light hazel eyes, and a square jaw. He moved like a former jock who hadn’t quite gone soft, mostly because he didn’t know how. The tailored grey suit made his shoulders even wider. You had a feeling that if you stood between him and something that really mattered, he would go through you, and he wouldn’t lose his cool, because it wouldn’t be personal. He also matched the photographs I’d looked up this morning. Edward Sherwood, Brian’s older brother.

  Calm eyes, assured walk, no hint of tension in the jaw or in the line of his shoulders. If he had something to do with his brother’s disappearance, he was either completely confident that he would get away with it or an excellent actor.

  “Ms. Baylor,” he said. His voice was measured and calm like the rest of him. “Rynda told me you would be coming.”

  “Good morning.”

  We shook hands. He had a firm handshake. The real question was, did he read the Assembly newsletter and would he remember my name?

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.” I turned to Cornelius. “One of our investigators, Cornelius Harrison.”

  Cornelius also got a handshake.

  “Let’s talk somewhere more comfortable. Please follow me.” He headed for the door. It slid open at his approach, we stepped through, and it hissed shut behind us. I gaped.

  An enormous atrium spread in front of us, a labyrinth of raised beds and planters, so many that the floor formed a curving stone path between them. It had to have taken most of their first three floors. I couldn’t even begin to guess at the square footage. You could fit our warehouse inside several times over.

  Edward strolled down the path and I moved to keep up with him. Several old trees grew in raised beds, each covered with various mushrooms: a huge mass of white dangling threads that looked like an odd mop or an ultramodern chandelier; turkey tail mushrooms in a dozen colors I had never seen before, from granite grey to vivid green and intense burgundy; a nest of orange snakes that was probably a fungus or maybe an alien from outer space; a huge mass of bright yellow mushrooms, and on and on.

  Lichens flourished on the trees. Slime molds in every color in the crayon box stained the bark and massive, moss-sheathed boulders. Some lichens glowed weakly in the shade. More mushrooms grew from the roots: amethyst, indigo, nearly fluorescent green. A mushroom draped in a net of white filaments like a veil. A mushroom that looked like a chunk of Texas limestone bleeding bright red liquid from the holes. On the walls, under Plexiglas, enormous bacterial colonies thrived like abstract paintings.

  It was like stepping onto an alien planet. All I could do was stare.

  Talon took off from Cornelius’ shoulder and streaked between the trees.

  “He’s overwhelmed,” Cornelius said. “My apologies.”

  Edward smiled as we strolled down the path. “No worries. We bios mages have to deal with our charges’ idiosyncrasies. Life is unpredictable.”

  “Are you also a herbamagos like Brian?” I asked. His background check said he was.

  “Yes. But my talents lie with trees. Specifically, fruit trees. Brian rules over fungi. This is his kingdom.” Edward raised his hand to encompass the alien landscape. “This way.”

  He turned right. We followed him around the bend. The mushroom kingdom ended abruptly. A koi stream stretched in front of us, widening into a pond with a rock wall and a waterfall at the far end. On the other side a beautiful garden spread. Fruit trees, some flowering, some bearing golden apples, apricots, and cherries, rose from the planters.

  Edward led us across a small Japanese bridge into the garden.

  “You’re probably wondering why I don’t lead the family. Everyone does,” he said. “They are simply too polite to ask the question. I’m the oldest and a Prime.”

  “Why don’t you lead the family?” I asked.

  “In our family Brian was born with a gold spoon in his mouth. There’s significantly more money in fungi-driven pharmaceuticals than in delicious apples.”

  Edward reached out, and the nearest apple tree leaned to him, brushing his palm with its leaves.

  “Does it bother you?” I asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  Lie.

  The floor abruptly ended. The path was still there, but instead of stone tiles a green lawn stretched in front of us. Walking on it in heels was out of the question. I’d sink in with every step.

  Edward waited, watching me.

  I slipped off my shoes, picked them up, and kept going. The grass felt cool under my toes. I had to do this carefully. He was a Prime, and a wrong step would get us thrown out. I owed Rynda some answers.

  “Mr. Sherwood,” I said. “Rynda has hired our agency to look into the disappearance of her husband.”

  “It was a shock,” he said. “Considering your role in her mother’s death.”

  Right, now that we got Olivia’s death out of the way . . . “We would like to ask you some questions. Some topics might be sensitive. Everything you tell us is confidential, but not privileged.”

  “I’ll be as candid as I can. Within reason.”

  I waited for the familiar nagging feeling, but my magic stayed silent. He was sincere.

  “When was the last time you saw your brother?”

  “Thursday night a little before six. We spoke briefly about the budgetary meeting on Friday. I asked him if he wanted to attend. He said he would be busy with his research. He left the office. I got up and watched the trees on the other end of the parking lot from my window. It helps me think. I was still in front of the window when he walked out into the parking lot, got into his car, and drove off.”

  Truth. Off to a good start.

  “Are you concerned for your brother’s well-being?”

  “Yes.”

  Lie. Spoke too soon.

  “I’m concerned for Rynda,” he volunteered. “And the children.”

  Truth.

  The path brought us to the curve of the koi pond. Three plain wooden benches, the kind you could find in every home improvement store, waited, arranged in a rough circle. A trellis wove above each, bearing a spray of clematis flowers. Crimson, white, burgundy, blue, the big mixed blossoms sent a subtle, complicated aroma into the air.

  “Please.” Edward invited me to the bench.

  I sat. Cornelius took a spot next to me. Edward chose the bench across from us.

  It was so tranquil here. I could sit and read a book in this spot for hours, smelling the clematis, glancing at the pond, and feeling the soft silken grass under my feet. And that was exactly why he brought me here. This was his piece of the kingdom. He was comfortable here, and he counted on the soothing surroundings to soften the conversation.

  “When Brian was a young child, he didn’t like to be in trouble,” Edward said. “No child does, but my brother would become easily overwhelmed. Our father had a harsh view of child-rearing. He was a product of his generation. When my brother did something he knew would put him into our father’s crosshairs, he disappeared. He would hide for hours and he was very good at it. At first, everyone would wait for him to come out. Then, a few hours into his disappearance, my mother would panic, sure that this time something bad must have happened. The entire household would look for him, sometimes until morning, and when he was fina
lly found, everyone would be too tired and too relieved for discipline.”

  “Do you feel that Brian is hiding?”

  “Yes.”

  True.

  “Why?”

  He leaned back. “BioCore is engaged in high-profile antibiotic research. The average person rarely pays attention to how much we owe antibiotics. They simply take for granted that few people die from infection following surgeries. Strep throat, pneumonia, and UTIs are unpleasant inconveniences, but rarely a cause for panic. Despite extensive travel, we no longer have plagues and epidemics. We’ve gotten comfortable. It’s a mistake.”

  “Nature always finds a way,” Cornelius said.

  Edward nodded. “We’re facing a sharp rise in antibiotic-resistant bacteria. Our miracle drugs no longer work. This is happening right now, today, this minute. We’re losing the battle. MDR-TB, the bacterial strain responsible for tuberculosis, is resistant to a multitude of antibiotics. MRSA, VRE, KPC, the list goes on. I could give you more scary acronyms, which all amount to the same thing. Soon a routine visit to the hospital for a respiratory infection or a relatively safe surgery, like appendix removal, may end your life. The race to find new and better drugs is on. Brian was on the forefront of that. He used his magic to facilitate rapid mutation of the fungi in response to bacterial threats. He was trying to develop new antibacterial agents. It’s a dangerous and lucrative field of study.”

  “Competitive?” I guessed.

  “Very. I promised to be candid. Olivia’s involvement in Senator Garza’s death and the resulting avalanche of negative publicity hurt us. Badly. Brian married Rynda for her mother’s business contacts. Right now those contacts are running for cover.”

  It was as if Rynda had the plague. Everything connected to her mother was tainted.

  “Two of our major investors pulled their money. The sum was not insignificant. A large contract, which was all but signed and delivered, went to our major competitor instead. We’re having difficulties obtaining necessary virus samples.”

  “Are you facing a financial crisis?” I asked.