Wildfire

by Ilona Andrews

  He turned onto our street.

  “Will you drop me off at my house?” I asked.

  He brought the car to a smooth stop before the warehouse. I reached for the chain around my neck.

  “No,” he said, steel in his voice.

  “I can’t. It’s too expensive. I . . .”

  “I bought it for you,” he said.

  If I forced him to take it back, he would toss it out of the window and drive off. I could see it in his eyes.

  “Okay. Don’t wait for me. I’ll be a little bit.”

  His face shut down.

  I stepped out of the car and punched the code into the warehouse door.

  Mom and Grandma Frida were still in the kitchen, bickering about something in low voices. The moment I walked in, everything stopped.

  I took off the chain and put the diamond on the table.

  “Ooo, shiny.” Grandma Frida stared at it. “What is it?”

  “It’s sixteen million dollars.”

  I landed into a chair. My mother and grandmother stared at me, mute.

  “Sixteen million dollars?” Mom finally found her voice.

  “It’s a green-blue diamond. There are only three in the world. I tried to give it back to him and he refuses to take it. We’re just keeping it for a little while. Can we put it somewhere safe so I can give it back to him when he feels better?”

  “Did he propose and you turned him down?” Grandma Frida demanded.

  “No. He didn’t propose. It’s a Christmas present. It was a nice dinner.” It wasn’t Rogan’s fault that Sturm ruined the end of it.

  My mother rubbed her temples. “Where would we even put it? We don’t have a safe.”

  “I can put it into the spare ammo lockbox and you can keep it in your bedroom,” Grandma Frida said.

  “Let’s do that. And please don’t tell my sisters.” The last thing I needed was them taking selfies with the Tear of the Aegean. I got up and went to the fridge. Let’s see, eggs, whipping cream, butter . . . We had chocolate chips somewhere here.

  “What are you doing?” Mom asked.

  “I’m making chocolate mousse.”

  “Now?” Grandma Frida asked.

  “Yes.”

  Thirty minutes later, with the diamond safe under my bed, I grabbed my favorite sleeping T-shirt out of the laundry, stuffed it, my laptop, and a packet of makeup wipes into a canvas bag, grabbed the baking pan with six teacups filled with mousse and a small container of freshly whipped cream, and walked over to Rogan’s HQ.

  Bug was still at his station. His face brightened when he saw me. “Hey you!”

  “Hey. Any news?”

  “No more calls. All quiet. What’s in the pan?”

  “Chocolate mousse.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Rogan likes it. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I climbed up another flight of stairs and tried Rogan’s door. The door handle turned in my hands. I walked in. He sat at a desk, his face illuminated by the glow of the computer. He wore sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His feet were bare. This was Rogan in his off mode—relaxed, tired, and unbearably hot.

  He turned and saw me. Surprise slapped his face. He didn’t think I was coming over. He thought I was mad at him. Foolish, foolish Rogan.

  I walked to the small fridge in the corner, which, as I discovered last night, he used for drinks, and slid the pan in there. It was a tight fit, but I managed. I went to the closet in the right wall, shrugged off my shoes, peeled off my stockings, got out of my dress, and took off my bra. Finally. There was nothing quite as good as getting out of a bra at the end of the day. I pulled on my sleeping T-shirt, went to the sink, and washed the war paint off my face. It took a while. The cold floor felt so good under my toes after they had been squished into those terrible shoes for two hours.

  Finally, face clean, teeth brushed, I grabbed my laptop and flopped on Rogan’s bed, backwards, with my feet toward the headboard. I had neglected my email box for the last week and a half. There were things in there that couldn’t wait, like bills and invoice payments.

  About a minute later, Rogan moved across the floor, opened the fridge, and looked inside.

  Silence stretched.

  I concentrated on the emails. Usually there would be at least one or two new cases in there, considering I hadn’t checked it for at least ten days, but there was nothing. Houston was waiting to see if we would pass the trials. If we failed, our business would take a serious hit and I wasn’t sure it would recover. Yet more pressure, because I clearly didn’t have enough of it in my life already.

  An email from Bern. I may have something for you in the morning. Well, that wasn’t cryptic or anything.

  An email from Rivera. Odd. Good evening, Ms. Baylor. You asked the hospital to notify you when Edward Sherwood awoke. He is awake. I escorted Rynda Sherwood to visit him this evening. House Sherwood has a new security chief and Edward Sherwood is under 24–7 guard.

  House Sherwood stonewalled me again. Idiots. I typed a quick thank-you note.

  Rogan climbed into bed next to me and sat cross-legged, his laptop in front of him. He had one of the mousse cups in his hand, and he’d spooned a small mountain of whipped cream on top of it.

  “It’s not set yet,” I told him.

  “I don’t care.”

  His laptop showed a picture of a yellowed page, the kind that came from a notebook, covered in precise neat cursive.

  “What are you reading?” I asked.

  “My father’s notes,” Rogan said, spooning more mousse into his mouth. “He kept a file on every potential threat. This one is on Sturm. You said you couldn’t cook.”

  “I can’t. I don’t have the time, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know how to cook some things.”

  I nodded, scooted closer to him so we were touching, and went back to my emails. His fingertips brushed my back. He did it without looking away from his laptop. Just checking that I was still there.

  This is what it would be like, I realized. We could come home to each other every night.

  It didn’t have to be all blood and gore and fancy dinners. It could also be this, and this felt so good.

  Chapter 9

  I was sitting in Rogan’s kitchen, drinking coffee and eating another bear claw. The bear claw was dipped in a thin sugar glaze that crunched under my teeth with every bite and then melted in my mouth. It was probably ridiculously bad for me, but I didn’t care.

  Across from me, Rogan was drinking his coffee. Last night, after I was done going through my emails, Rogan decided that we both needed a bit of exercise before bed. He was very convincing. I could’ve used another hour of sleep today. Instead I was up, drinking coffee and wearing my semi-professional work clothes: jeans, a T-shirt, and a soft oversized sweater that was big enough to obscure my gun.

  Heart, Rivera, and Bug sat around the island, drinking coffee and talking in low voices.

  “Where are we with surveillance?” Rogan asked.

  Everyone went silent.

  Bug cleared his throat. “No sign of Vincent. He’s laying low. I’ve been keeping an eye on the Harcourts. No movement there. No sign of Brian.”

  “Sturm?” Rogan asked.

  “He went back to his house after the restaurant and hasn’t left.”

  “Victoria Tremaine?” Rogan asked.

  Bug shook his head. “If she’s moving, I can’t see it.”

  It was unlikely that Brian was being held at Sturm’s house. Too obvious and too damning if Brian’s presence was discovered. Most likely Brian was secured somewhere else. Vincent, on the other hand, would be at Sturm’s house, because if I were Sturm, I’d want him on a short leash after his last fun outing.

  Rogan looked at Heart. “Fortification analysis?”

  “I’ve sent people out to install additional lightning rods,” Heart said, “but there is not a lot we can do against a tornado. This building is solid and has a basement, and so do the two others w
e designated as barracks. I had the three basements stocked with first aid, water, and rations. We’re installing reinforced doors. We’ll drill evacuation procedures today.”

  “The warehouse?” Rogan asked.

  “It’s properly anchored and the steel walls will bend rather than break apart,” Heart said. “Technically, it’s rated to withstand 170-mph winds. Practically, it depends on who you talk to. If you ask steel building manufacturers, they’ll tell you stories of people who survived F-4 in one. But nobody knows what will happen if Sturm spins off a tornado and then holds it in one place.”

  If Sturm did that, our warehouse would crumple like an empty Coke can.

  “We need a shelter,” I said.

  Heart nodded. “There are issues with that. The ideal shelter would be sunken into the floor; however, it would require engineering and careful construction to do it properly, because the shelter has to bear the weight of the warehouse and soil. That will take time, which we don’t have. The other option would be to construct a reinforced shelter within the warehouse; however, the warehouse is filled with heavy vehicles. When picked up by a tornado, they will become airborne projectiles, which have a high probability of crushing any shelter within the warehouse.”

  “So our best option is to run to your basement,” I said.

  “Yes,” Rogan and Heart said at the same time.

  “Great.”

  “Sturm and I are both offensive mages,” Rogan said. “Defenses are our weak point, so whoever throws the first punch has the advantage.”

  And we couldn’t throw the first punch. We had no proof and no probable cause. Neither could Sturm, for that matter, not if he was hoping to keep his public image intact. It would be an unprovoked attack either way. The question was, who would snap first.

  “We’re installing an early warning system,” Rivera said. “He can create a tornado out of thin air, but he can’t mask the drop in air pressure and change in the air movement. We’ll have several sirens ready.”

  “I’ll brief your mother this afternoon,” Heart said.

  My phone chimed. It was a text from Leon. Fullerton is here.

  “I have to go.” I jumped off the chair, carried my cup to the sink, rinsed it, and stuck it upside-down into the dish rack. Rogan reached out and I let him catch me as I walked by.

  “What’s the plan today?” he asked.

  “I’m going to keep digging. The clock’s ticking, and we need to come up with the ransom by tomorrow.”

  “Where do you expect to go today?” He’d asked the question very carefully.

  “I’m going to meet with Fullerton at the warehouse now, and then I’ll go to the hospital to speak with Edward. Depending on what he tells me, I may be out in the city longer. I’ll have to play it by ear. I will be home in time to get ready for my dinner with Garen.”

  “About that thing you asked,” Bug said. “Three, but only one offers an unobstructed view of the street.”

  He was talking about the cameras facing Memorial Drive. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “What’s that about?” Rogan asked.

  “I’ll explain when I have something solid.” If I explained it now, he might tell Rynda, and I wanted to be one hundred percent sure before I dropped that kind of bomb on her. “I’ll know more after I talk to Edward.”

  “Do you want to take backup?” Rogan asked quietly.

  “No. I can’t run around Houston with armed guards, Rogan.” Especially if they were his armed guards.

  “It’s better to have protection and not need it,” Heart said, sounding reasonable. “What’s the harm in taking a couple of people with you?”

  “She doesn’t want to be seen with my people,” Rogan said. “She’s being watched. House Baylor must emerge as an independent House, not a vassal.”

  Heart looked at him. “I thought that was settled.”

  Rogan shook his head, barely. “No.”

  “My apologies. I misunderstood the situation,” Heart said.

  What were they talking about?

  “I’ll take Cornelius with me,” I said. If I could pry him away from Zeus.

  Rogan’s face told me he didn’t like it.

  “My grandmother isn’t going to try anything in broad daylight, not after you took Dave apart. Sturm gave us forty-eight hours. I’m trying to find the thing he wants. It isn’t in his best interests to impede me, and I doubt he’d let Vincent out of his sight now. Trying to grab me off the street is risky and wouldn’t make sense. He already has all the leverage he needs. Bug will keep an eye on me and warn me if anything weird comes up.”

  All the words I was saying made total sense, and they were bouncing off Rogan without making any impact. I had to redirect this before he thought up some creative ways to keep me safe and hamstring my investigation in the process.

  The best defense is a good offense. “Where will you be today?”

  “I’m going to see House Ade-Afefe in Austin,” Rogan said.

  Ah. Now the paranoia made sense. He would be out of town, so if something happened, he couldn’t drop everything and rush over to my side to murder everyone in sight. “What kind of House is it?”

  “They are weather mages,” Rogan said. “Very powerful House. We’ve done business before. I’m going to ask for help. I know who I want, but I doubt I’ll get her, so I’ll take whoever they’ll let me have. If they let me have anyone. I’ll be back in time for the dinner.”

  Primes never did anything for free. “What will it cost you?”

  For a second weariness claimed his face, then vanished so fast that if I wasn’t looking straight at him, I would’ve missed it. “It’s not the cost. I’ll have to explain the full extent of what we’re facing. I’ll have to do it in person.”

  That meant explaining the conspiracy and the ramifications of picking a side. This was a no-way-back kind of decision. Once the choice was made, you were either against Caesar or with him. Either way, the choice wouldn’t be forgotten. What was it Sturm said yesterday? A man can often assume that he’s in the right, only to find himself unexpectedly on the wrong side of history. History was written by the winners. House Ade-Afefe would likely need a lot of convincing.

  “Do you need me to come with you?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Yes, on second thought, bringing Victoria Tremaine’s granddaughter to deal with sensitive negotiations wouldn’t endear him to any House. It signaled he expected them to lie and he needed me to tell him when they did. My presence would shatter any illusion of trust like a wrecking ball swinging at a glass house.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me know if I can help.”

  His arm was still around me, and he showed no signs of letting me go. His eyes brimmed with power, calculating, smart, and worried.

  “Fullerton is waiting,” I reminded him quietly.

  “He will wait.” Rogan reached for his laptop. “I want to show you something.”

  I’d tell him I heard that line before but Bug, Rivera, and Heart were right there.

  Rogan opened his laptop and clicked a file. An image of my mother filled the screen. She lay on the carpeted floor in some building, her gun pointing at a small perfectly circular hole in the window. Leon lay next to her. The Harcourt building loomed in the distance.

  “Go to three alpha, three o’clock, ten mils,” Leon said.

  The sector game. I remembered playing it in the kitchen when I was a child. You divided your field of vision into sectors by reference points. From doorway to table, sector one. From left table edge to centerpiece, sector two. From centerpiece to the right edge of the table, sector three . . . Then you moved on to depth. From the table to the island, sector alpha. From the island to the fridge, sector bravo. Then Mom would call out, and we’d identify. Salt on the left side of the table became two alpha, nine o’clock. When each of us got older, Mom took us to the firing range and the game got slightly more complicated.

  Leon was playing it for real now.

  “
Contact,” Mom said. “Second window from the left. No target.”

  “Bottom right corner. Little more to the left. Little more.”

  Leon was breaking protocol. That wasn’t how you talked the sniper onto the target.

  “Little bit more.”

  He should be telling her to check parallax and mil. Once she got the mil, she would say it out loud, he would plug it into the ballistic computer, give the hold over, wait for the “Ready,” and then give wind call. None of that was happening. And my mother wasn’t correcting him.

  “Fire,” Leon said.

  Mom squeezed the trigger. The window shattered.

  Leon laughed quietly under his breath.

  “Did she hit the target?” I asked.

  “The best we can figure out,” Rivera said, “the bullet struck something inside the building, made an almost ninety-degree turn, and took out the shooter at the other side. Leon can literally shoot around corners. The kid is magic.”

  “Two bravo, six o’clock,” Leon said. “A little to the left.”

  I would’ve never gotten away with that “a little to the left.”

  Wait. We all had made trips to the range, including Leon. My mother knew. She had to have known about his magic before any of us. It would’ve come out at the range. When I had told her my big revelation about Leon’s talent, she had already figured it out.

  Well, I was an idiot. Mom and I were overdue for a talk.

  Another shot rang out.

  “How many confirmed kills?” I asked.

  “Thirteen,” Heart said. “It’s difficult to determine exactly, because as Rivera said, your cousin lines up shots that kill people two rooms over. Your mother fired twenty-one times. Your cousin laughed or smiled seventeen times, so we estimate the actual kill count at seventeen.”

  Leon smiled when he killed people. I rubbed my face. “Maybe if I can get him some therapy . . .”

  The four men at the island stared at me.

  “He laughs when he kills people. He thinks it’s funny.”

  “I don’t care if he laughs,” Rivera said. “As long as he’s next to me shooting out, I’m good.”

  Rogan glanced at him. Rivera clamped his mouth shut.