I let the badge fade.
Augustine looked like a hungry kid in a candy store. “Is Duncan the Warden?”
There was no point in lying. “Yes.”
“Does Connor know?”
The rivalry between Augustine and my brother-in-law stretched all the way back to their college days. Was he asking if Connor knew that Linus was the Warden or that I was his Deputy? The less information I gave him, the better.
“Please be more specific.”
Augustine snapped his fingers. “He doesn’t know about you, but he knows about Duncan. Did Duncan try to recruit him?”
“You would have to ask him.”
“He did, and Connor must’ve turned him down, and now you took his place. This is wonderful. I love it.”
“If you’re done gloating . . .”
“I can gloat and cooperate at the same time.” Augustine pushed a key on his desk phone and said, “See me. Catalina, what do you know about the Morton case?”
“Nothing.”
“Lander Morton’s only son, Felix, was murdered three days ago. He was involved in a reclamation project with representatives of four other Houses.”
“What are they reclaiming?”
“The Pit.”
Jersey Village? The little city, a part of Houston metro, had been flooded years ago during a harebrained attempt to build a subway system. Now the alien swamp in the video sort of made sense. But the last time I had gone to the Pit, over three years ago, it looked just like a typical flood zone with stagnant water and half-burst buildings where drug addicts, the homeless, and the magic-warped hid among the moldy garbage. It hadn’t looked like the arcane realm had thrown up in it.
“The five Houses had signed a contract specifying that they would submit to an investigation in case one of them died under suspicious circumstances. Each of the principles carries a vital personal insurance policy that won’t be paid out until such an investigation is concluded. The four surviving partners are currently suspects. They and Lander Morton are coming here today to meet with my chief investigator.”
Five Primes expecting a top-of-the-line professional investigator, Montgomery’s best. “Today when?”
He smiled.
The wall opened and Lina walked through the door.
“Ms. Baylor is about to meet with five Primes,” Augustine said. “I need you to fix . . .” He waved his hand at me. “That.”
Lina pursed her lips.
I wore athletic sandals, jean shorts, and a sleeveless T-shirt with spaghetti straps, stained with sweat. My bun had fallen, my hair was a tangled mess, and I was pretty sure there were twigs in it, since two hours ago I had climbed a giant pecan tree because I thought I spotted Rosebud in it and my hair got caught in the branches. I had also climbed onto a roof of a building to peer into a chimney, and the dust and soot had combined with sweat to give my face a swirly sheen of grime. Minor scrapes covered my arms and legs. Purple blood splattered my clothes. And the star of the show—a three-claw-shaped scrape on my left thigh, which I must have gotten sprinting to the device. It wasn’t deep, but it had bled, adding dried blood to my award-winning fashion ensemble.
“How much time do I have?” Lina asked.
“The meeting is in forty-three minutes,” Augustine said. “I still need to brief her.”
“Could you glamour her?” Lina asked.
“No. She’s meeting with her grieving client and a room full of Primes, who know they are suspects. They would recognize illusion. She needs to inspire trust and be a beacon of integrity.”
Lina rolled her eyes and grabbed my hand. “Come with me.”
Twenty minutes later I sat in Augustine’s office trying not to move while Lina attempted to brush my hair. The shower in the executive bathroom was truly lovely but scrubbing all the blood off my skin took longer than I expected. I wore light grey slacks with a white blouse and a towel draped over my back, so my half-dried hair wouldn’t stain the satin top.
“Over the years, the Pit became the go-to place to dump magical hazmat,” Augustine said. “Currently the amount of arcane matter within the Pit has reached critical levels. Summoned creatures that escape control of their summoners seem to be drawn to it and now they are breeding in the bog. The city council offered a lucrative contract to whoever could fix it. If reclaimed, the Pit would become an area of prized real estate, to which the reclamation crew would hold certain rights.”
That made sense. The former Jersey Village was close enough to Houston’s downtown to be valuable as both residential and commercial property and since nobody lived there, aside from the homeless and junkies, there would be no relocation costs associated with it. Whoever claimed it could build whatever they wanted and make a fortune.
“The contract went to the alliance of five Houses.” Augustine clicked a remote. A section of the frosted wall turned into a large digital screen. On it, five people sat, obviously posing for a publicity picture.
“How can you have so much hair?” Lina growled. “And it’s so long too.”
“Seventeen minutes,” Augustine told her. “First from the left, our victim, Felix Morton. Forty-two years old, widower, three young children, a geokinetic like his father.”
The athletic white man in the picture, dark haired, handsome, with an easy, genuine smile, looked nothing like the mutilated corpse hanging from the electric cable.
“Publicly, Lander and Felix were estranged. Privately, Lander adored his son. Like his father, Felix was smart and had a talent for making money. Unlike his father, he was amiable and likeable. Lander realizes that even his close associates detest him. He didn’t want his son to inherit his enemies, so they concocted this feud and took pains to keep it up, but privately Lander and Felix were a team. Lander was consulted on all major decisions Felix made.”
Lina finished brushing and moved on to braiding.
“Did you do the preliminaries?”
Augustine gave me a look reserved for someone with half a brain and passed me a zippered leather folder. I unzipped it. The coroner’s report, police report, notes from the detectives on the scene, timeline, a set of keys . . .
I held out the keys.
“Lander took the grandchildren to his house. You have full access to Felix’s home and his computer. The passwords are on a card in the left pocket.”
“Thank you.”
“These are Felix’s business partners,” Augustine said, turning back to the publicity picture.
“You said that these four Primes are the primary suspects. Why them? Felix’s death threatens the project. Don’t they have an interest in keeping the reclamation going?”
Augustine nodded. “Indeed. The Pit is a chain of islands, connected by bridges and accessible by a single road. At night, the Pit is shut down. All personnel withdraw except for the guard at the gate that blocks that road. The main island with the project’s HQ is protected by a fence and a gate. The gate requires an after-hours code that is known only by the five members of the board. The night Felix died the code was used twice. First time by an unknown member of the board or their agent, who then proceeded to destroy the surveillance footage from the hidden camera feed, and second by Felix himself.”
“He walked into a trap.”
“Yes.” Augustine turned back to the publicity shot. “From left to right. Next to Felix is Marat Kazarian, Prime, Summoner.”
Marat was in his midthirties with tanned skin and curly dark hair, dark eyes, a prominent nose, and a short dark beard. He wore a wine-colored suit, an unusual choice, but it fit him. The last name pointed to Armenian roots. I didn’t immediately recognize the House. There was something dangerous about Marat. He would look at home in a black outfit atop a dark horse brandishing a sword. He stared at the camera as if it was challenging him.
“Cheryl Castellano, Prime, Animator.”
Cheryl could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. She had olive skin and a beautiful full face with a wide mouth and big grey ey
es under artfully shaped eyebrows. Her brown hair with caramel highlights was pulled back into a loose, effortless updo. Her expression was kind and slightly tired, as if she fully understood the artificial nature of the picture but had resigned herself to playing her part. I hadn’t come across her House either, although I’d heard her name before, associated with some charitable work.
“Stephen Jiang, Prime, Aquakinetic.”
Stephen was ridiculously handsome. If I didn’t know better, I would have taken him for an illusion Prime. In his early twenties or possibly thirties, he sat on a stool wearing a navy suit with a white shirt and dark blue tie. His dark hair was cut in a fashionable style and brushed back, exposing a broad high forehead. His cheekbones were perfect, his cheeks slightly concave above a square jaw with a strong chin. His nose was narrow, his lips full, and his eyes, dark and piercing, looked at the world with surprising intensity.
He also looked vaguely familiar. For the life of me I couldn’t remember where I’d seen him before. We hadn’t met. I would remember that.
“Yummy,” Lina volunteered, twisting the braid in the back of my head.
“Yes, he’s handsome.” Augustine looked at me. “Almost as handsome as Alessandro Sagredo.”
Grabbing a pen off the desk and stabbing Augustine Montgomery with it wasn’t in the best interest of my House and would significantly hamper my investigation. But I would have enjoyed it.
“And finally . . .”
“Tatyana Pierce,” I finished. “Prime, Pyrokinetic.”
About four years ago, Adam Pierce, the youngest son of House Pierce, handsome and spoiled by his family, involved himself in a political conspiracy, which was now known as the Sturm-Charles conspiracy, and tried to burn down Houston. My older sister, Nevada, and my brother-in-law were the reason the city was still standing, and Adam was now rotting in a high security prison in Alaska. Tatyana Pierce was his sister.
I looked at Tatyana. She was thirty-six years old, with chestnut hair pulled into a loose braid and tossed over one shoulder. Both Adam and Peter, her older brother, were lean, but she was softer, with a rounded face and a generous figure. A beautiful woman, the kind who would turn heads and reduce stainless-steel beams to puddles of glowing metal in seconds. And she hated Connor, Nevada, and our entire family.
This was less than ideal. Much, much less.
“Time’s up.” Augustine rose. “Remember, every participant contributed money to the Pit but the bulk of the investment came from House Morton. The project was plagued with issues from the start. If the flow of that cash stops today, tomorrow the site will become a construction equipment graveyard.”
I pulled the towel off my shoulders. The section of the frosted wall turned into a mirror in front of me. I looked exactly the way I would have chosen to look for this meeting. Well put together, professional, with subtle makeup and my hair out of the way in a complex plait on my neck. Lina’s expertise with cosmetics made me look older. I had let Victoria Tremaine’s granddaughter out of the cage.
“Whoa,” Lina murmured.
“I believe we’re ready.” Augustine waved his hand and the section of the frosted wall slid aside. He invited me to go through. “Please.”
We walked down the underwater hallway side by side.
“Any words of wisdom?” I asked. Augustine enjoyed a mentor role.
“Life is full of surprises,” he said. “Try to cope with grace.”
We entered a small room. Inside two MII employees waited by an elderly white man sitting in a wheelchair. Gaunt, his grey hair cut very short, he stared through me with dark eyes, like an old buzzard defending its carrion. If I showed any weakness at all, he would claw me bloody. Lander Morton. My new employer.
Lander peered at Augustine. “About time. I thought you said it would be a man.”
Augustine shrugged. “She’s better.”
“She looks young. How old are you?”
“Old enough. I’m here because I deliver. Do you want results, or do you want someone who looks the part?”
Lander squinted at me. “She’ll do. Let’s get on with this.”
Augustine nodded. The female employee opened the double doors, revealing a luxury conference room. The four Primes from the publicity photo sat at the table, each with an assistant standing behind them.
Lander motioned me over with a wave of his bony fingers. I stepped closer and bent down.
“One of these fuckers killed my boy,” he told me in a hoarse whisper loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “You find which one of them did it.”
I nodded and straightened.
Lander touched the controls on his chair, and it rolled forward into the room. Augustine and I followed, he on the left and I on the right.
Nobody rose. Clearly, manners were in short supply.
Lander stopped his chair a few feet from the table, peering at the group. Augustine smoothly stepped to the side, out of the way, leaving me and Lander on our own.
“Our deepest condolences,” Cheryl said. She sounded like she meant it.
“Save it,” Lander snapped at her. “You all know why we’re here. My son is dead and the contract you signed obligates you to cooperate with the inquest into his death. Montgomery will handle the investigation. This is his girl. She’ll be doing the grunt work. I expect you to talk to her or I’ll haul you before the Assembly so fast, you’ll piss yourselves.”
Marat began to rise. “Who do you think—”
“Also,” Lander’s voice cracked like a whip. “If you give the girl any trouble, you won’t get another dime out of my House. In case you forgot, my House is bankrolling most of this project.”
Tatyana put her hand on Marat’s forearm. He sat back down.
“House Jiang extends its deepest regrets for the loss of the heir,” Stephen said. “Should you take some time to mourn and make the necessary arrangements, we will extend you every courtesy.”
Lander swiveled toward him. “Fuck your regrets.”
Stephen blinked.
“I have more money than all of you put together,” Lander announced. “I can tie this up in court for years. It will give me something to live for.”
Cheryl cleared her throat. “Of course we will cooperate fully. The sooner the cause of this tragedy is discovered, the better. As much as it pains me, I must point out that Felix was involved in every aspect of the project and often served as tiebreaker during our votes. Will you be taking over for him?”
“I’m old,” Lander said. “My health isn’t good. I have doctors and grandchildren to keep happy. This project needs someone young with a good head on his shoulders. Someone none of you can influence.”
Marat opened his mouth. Lander glared at him, and Marat clamped it shut.
“You’ll appoint a proxy?” Tatyana asked.
“Yes. It’s my right.”
The sound of quick steps echoed through the open doors.
“That would be him now,” Lander said.
A dark-haired man walked through the doorway, gliding as if his joints were liquid. All the air went out of the room. I tried to take a breath but there was none to be had.
“My apologies,” Alessandro Sagredo said with a charming Italian accent. “So sorry to be late.”
Augustine Montgomery was a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet.
Alessandro looked straight at me. Our stares connected and for a split second my brain ground to a halt. I couldn’t think, I could only feel, and what I felt was intense, searing rage.
I couldn’t afford to react.
Tiny orange flames sparked in his irises and vanished. Nobody else saw it. His expression remained perfectly neutral.
Why? He had the entire world at his disposal. He could have gone anywhere, but he came back here, to my city. It hurt to look at him. It hurt to remember him holding me, because when he wrapped his arms around me, he made me feel safe, and loved, and wanted. All that and he left, without apology, without explanation. He’d made it ab
solutely clear that I didn’t matter and now he was back, the son of a bitch, as if nothing had happened.
Alessandro walked to Lander’s left side and bent to him, an expression of utmost concern on his handsome face. “How are you feeling today, Zio?”
I had to snap out of it. There would be time to feel later. Right now, I had to think, because the equivalent of a hungry raptor just casually strolled into the room and nobody besides me, Morton, and possibly Augustine knew it. Alessandro called Lander his uncle. They weren’t related. I knew the genealogy of House Sagredo like the back of my hand. I could recite them down to the fourth generation in my sleep.
Lander patted Alessandro’s hand with his, affectionately, as you would to a nephew.
“I didn’t know House Morton and House Sagredo were on such good terms,” Tatyana commented.
“Why would you know? When his father and I were friends, you were just a twitch in your daddy’s dick,” Lander said.
Lander Morton, the very soul of courtesy.
Marat rolled his eyes.
Alessandro straightened. Not a hint of magic. He’d pulled his power so deep inside himself, he felt inert. Harmless. Most of his targets kept on thinking he was harmless, right up until he killed them. That’s why they called him the Artisan. He’d elevated murder for hire to an art.
Why are you here? Was this work or really a family obligation?
He wore a pewter-colored suit, impeccably tailored, Neapolitan-style, cut close to the body to accentuate his narrow waist. The suit shimmered slightly, probably a summer wool-and-silk blend. Spalla camicia, the “shirt shoulder,” without any padding and wide lapels with a convex curve that drew the eye, all of which minimized the shoulder line. Alessandro had shoulders like a gymnast; if you put any padding on him, he would resemble a linebacker. He was here to work, and he was trying to disguise his build to appear less of a threat.
It might work on the four Primes. It might even work on Augustine. They would look at his suntanned skin, his artfully disheveled brown hair, the expensive suit, the tailored trousers ending at a perfect shivering break—the hem meeting the shoes’ vamps as closely as was possible without rumpling—and they would see a young Italian Prime, an heir to an old family, indulged, confident, carefree, handling a bit of business as a favor.
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