White Hot Page 9

  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.