White Hot

by Ilona Andrews

  “Sushi!” Arabella jumped up off the couch, becoming completely vertical in 0.3 seconds.

  “Can I borrow you two for a moment?”

  Catalina grimaced. “I can’t let this go—I’ll have to redo the whole braid.”

  “Please don’t argue.”

  They must’ve heard the no-nonsense note in my voice, because my sisters moved.

  “There is a dead body and an injured man in the motor pool,” I said quietly. “Grandma is watching them. Catalina, keep Matilda in this room. Do whatever you have to do to protect her. I mean whatever you have to do. If you need to use your powers, do it.”

  Catalina’s face paled. “Understood.”

  “Arabella, is Bern home?”

  “He’s in the Hut of Evil.”

  “Tell him to put us on lockdown. Where is Mom?”

  “In the tower.”

  “Leon?”

  “Playing Grim Souls.”

  Good; Leon was with his brother in the computer room.

  “Are you okay?” Catalina asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is someone coming for us?” Arabella whispered.

  “I don’t know. Go.”

  Arabella took off like a rocket, Catalina ducked back into the media room, and I ran for the intercom in the hallway.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was attacked. One wounded, one dead body in the motor pool. We need an EMT. Can you get ahold of Rogan’s team?”

  “Stand by.”

  I waited.

  The intercom came to life. “Open the front door.”

  I sprinted to the office through the hallway, then to the door and checked the monitor. Two men in tactical gear ran up to the door through the rain, one carrying a medical bag. I opened the door, made sure it was locked behind them, and led them to the motor pool.

  The medic went straight for Troy, while the other man went for the corpse and began speaking quickly into his headset.

  I dialed Rogan’s number. I didn’t have to look at contacts. To my shame, I had it memorized. The call went straight to voice mail. There was no message, no introduction, just a beep.

  I cleared my throat. “We were attacked on the Sam Houston Tollway. Troy is injured. Your people are taking care of him. Three vehicles were involved: a semi, a Toyota 4Runner, and a black Suburban. There was an ice mage in the Suburban. He iced the road, then the Toyota shot at us and the semi pushed us off the tollway, and we crashed into a tollbooth. An illusion mage came after us. I killed him, and I have his corpse. Call me back, please.”

  I hung up and trotted to the medic.

  By the time Rogan’s medic examined Troy and declared that he had a concussion, all of my adrenaline had worn off. I took several pictures of the dead guy with my phone, and walked away. I should’ve checked on Cornelius, but right now I wasn’t in any shape to give a day’s report. I headed to the tower where my mother was instead. Tower was really a grandiose name for it. It was a square chute that led up to the crow’s nest near the roof, equipped with a sturdy wooden ladder. My mother had climbed it despite her permanent limp, which meant she was really worried about our safety.

  I climbed the ladder and emerged through the trapdoor into a small room, built at the very top of the warehouse. The ceiling here was barely five feet high, just enough to comfortably crawl up and sit on the low stool, which was exactly what my mother was doing. Her .300 Winchester Magnum sniper rifle was keeping her company. Dad and she had customized the roof, installing some very narrow windows, but they’d never gotten around to putting in the sniper tower. That had come later, courtesy of Grandma Frida and my mother, after Adam Pierce used some kids to blow up Rogan’s car in front of our warehouse.

  From this vantage point, my mother had a perfect view of the north, south, and east sides of the warehouse and the adjoining street and parking lots. The warehouse was rectangular, and the west side, where Grandma’s Frida’s motor pool opened to the street, was too long. The roof blocked the view of that parking lot, so there was no clear shot.

  I sat next to my mother.

  She reached over and hugged me.

  I felt like crying.

  “How’s the injured?” she asked.

  “A concussion. The collision knocked him out.”

  “Nothing major?”

  “Not that the medic found so far.” My voice sounded dull. “The Mazda is totaled.”

  She didn’t even blink. “How did that happen?”

  “Enerkinetic barrage mages had us pinned down and Rogan broke it in half and used it as a shield.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “Not seriously.”

  “Is he?”

  “Not seriously.”

  “Are they hurt?”

  “I killed them.”

  “So everything is good then.”

  “Yes. No.”

  I opened my mouth and things just came out. I told her about Forsberg throwing me and then dying and about his eyes being two bloody holes I couldn’t unsee, watching the recording of lawyers being murdered, about the ice on the overpass and the parking lot below, and the demon, and hoping Troy didn’t have a broken neck.

  She didn’t say a word. She just hugged me again.

  “I should tell Cornelius,” I said.

  “Cornelius won’t be up for a while. I gave him two sleeping pills,” Mom said.

  “Oh.”

  “He moved everything in, brought in all the animals, then tried to cook for Matilda, but the girls offered to make her oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, so she decided to eat that instead. Then he sat in the kitchen staring off into space and his hands were shaking. I made him take a hot shower, watched him take two pills, and the last I saw, he was sleeping like a log. He needs it. He hasn’t slept since his wife died.”

  “I see.” One didn’t say no to my mother.

  Mom reached over and brushed my hair out of my face. “Rough waters.”

  “Yes. That’s okay. I climbed into them of my own free will.”

  My phone rang. I looked at it. Rogan.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m on my way,” he said and hung up.

  I stared at my mom. “The Scourge of Mexico is on his way. We’re saved.”

  Mom snorted. “Lie down.” She pointed to a narrow mattress on the floor.

  I did. She put a soft blue blanket over me. It was so warm up here, cozy under the blanket. My limbs felt very heavy. I was suddenly so tired, but I was safe. Mom would watch over me.

  “Try to rest.”

  “I feel so weird.” Like all those terrible things had happened to someone else.

  “You’re in shock. Magic-induced panic has strange side effects. Your body needs time to recover. Try to relax and let it go. I’ll tell you when your Rogan gets here.”

  “He isn’t mine.”

  Mom smiled at me. “Sure he isn’t.”

  I yawned. “He’s bad for me. Why do I have to like a man who’s bad for me? Why couldn’t I have found someone who is solid and normal and not whatever the hell he is?”

  “I don’t know.” Mom spread her arms.

  I squinted at her. “You’re an adult.”

  “You’re an adult too.”

  “But you’re an older adult. You’ve had more practice.”

  Mom leaned back and laughed.

  “Listen to me. I sound like I’m fifteen years old.” I tried to scrounge up some embarrassment, but I was too tired.

  “When I was five years younger than you are now, your grandpa asked me the same question,” Mom said.

  “What?” Grandma Frida always told me that she and Grandpa Leon loved my dad. Was it before Dad? It couldn’t have been. Mom had me when she was twenty.

  “Your dad had a really rough life,” she said. “He had problems.”

  “Like what?” I desperately tried to stay awake.

  “He couldn’t do crowded places because he was convinced someone was following him and people
were looking at him as if there was something wrong with his face.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yes. He couldn’t hold down a job. He only had a high school diploma, and the kind of jobs he took often meant he had to keep his mouth shut and do as he was told. But instead he would try to improve things. He’d point out ways to make the job better or to produce more, and he was usually right. He refused to cut corners and didn’t get into workplace politics so he would eventually get fired.”

  That I could believe. Dad had a very strong sense of right and wrong. He was professional in all things and he’d never do anything unethical.

  “And then you came along. We had very little money and no medical benefits. Your grandparents pushed your dad to enlist.”

  That didn’t surprise me either. Both Grandpa Leon and Grandma Frida had made their careers in the army. To them enlisting meant a steady paycheck, medical, dental, commissary benefits, and, despite deployments and wars, an odd kind of stability the civilian world couldn’t deliver.

  “Your dad couldn’t enlist. He was hiding and there were too many red flags that would light up.”

  “Hiding from what?”

  Mom sighed. “It’s complicated. I promise he had his reasons and they were good ones. My parents didn’t understand. They saw a deadbeat loser who’d managed to make a baby and now wouldn’t step up to the plate to take care of her. Grandpa Leon called him a coward to his face. Grandma Frida took me to this lunch where she tried to convince me to leave him and come back to their house. Her exact words were ‘And if he tries to bother you again, I’ll pull his legs out.’”

  I remembered to close my mouth.

  “She was very convincing. I remember I had a moment where I thought she might be right and it would be easier to just walk away. In the end, it didn’t matter. I loved him. I understood why he was the way he was. He loved me so much and he did everything in his power to make things better. So when you were six months old, I enlisted instead and I left you at home with your dad,” Mom said. “Hardest thing I’ve ever done. That’s when your grandma began to thaw. She walked into our house a month after I left for boot camp, expecting a trash heap of dirty diapers and your dad at the end of his rope. Instead the place was spotless, you were clean and fed, and he made her lunch. Your dad did a good job taking care of you, and later, of your sisters. He built a business that still puts food on our table. And when Grandpa Leon needed help, your dad always offered it and never once asked for any acknowledgment. He was a good man, your father. I was proud of him and proud to be his wife.”

  “He wouldn’t have left the scene of an accident.”

  “If your life was on the line, he wouldn’t have even thought twice about it. Your dad would do anything to keep us safe. If he had to pick up a gun and shoot someone between the eyes, he wouldn’t hesitate. You had an injured teammate in the car. You did what had to be done to keep him safe. Your father would be proud of you. Don’t ever doubt that. The agency is his legacy, Nevada. You make sure that it thrives and its name stands for something.”

  Right now it stood for “we get ourselves into violent messes and then heroically try to get out of them.”

  “Anyway, the moral of that long story I just told you wasn’t to compare you to your dad. It’s to remind you that it’s your life, Nevada. You own the responsibility for it. I can’t be in charge of it and I don’t even want to give you advice. There is no point. No matter what I say, you’ll do what feel right to you in the end. So.” Mom folded her hands on her lap. “What feels right to you, Nevada?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, when you figure it out, let me know. If I have to shoot Mad Rogan, I’d like to be properly prepared for it.”

  “I was wrong about him, you know,” I said quietly, half asleep. “I thought he was a sociopath, but he cares about his people being killed.”

  “You sure he isn’t just pissed off because they failed?”

  “No. He tries to hide it but you can tell it tore him up inside. He went to notify all the families personally yesterday. When we were tracking Adam, he was really angry about the way the Air Force had treated Bug. I didn’t think that much of it at the time, but now it makes sense.”

  “So he’s human after all.”

  “Sort of. He cares about his people. I just don’t know if he cares about anyone else. He still thinks he’s at war, Mom. It’s kill or be killed. There is no middle ground with him.”

  “Mhm.”

  I yawned. “I invited him for dinner. I just wanted to tell you so you don’t have a heart attack.”

  She said something back, but she sounded far away and I couldn’t make it out. Thoughts crawled around my head in all directions like big lazy caterpillars. I gave up, closed my eyes, and let myself drift.

  Chapter 6

  I woke up because I heard voices. I opened my eyes. My mom was gone. The tower was empty and the only light came from the outside filtering through the narrow slits of the windows and from the square opening that led down. I checked my phone. I’d slept for forty minutes, and now I felt kind of woozy. I didn’t want to get up. I wanted to lie right here on this cozy air mattress and stay warm and comfy. And maybe sleep some more.

  The creaking of a ladder announced someone climbing up into the tower and moving fast.

  I flipped onto my stomach, sat up, and leaned toward the opening, my hands on the floor, to see who was coming up the stairs. In that exact moment Rogan raised his head. We were face to face. An overwhelming relief flooded his eyes.

  I was so glad to see him.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked. Mere inches separated us.

  “That’s the second time today you asked me that.” I leaned closer. I couldn’t help myself. “You should really come up with a better pickup line.”

  He surged up, halfway into the room, his upper body in, his feet still on the stairs. His mouth closed on mine.

  His lips burned me. The sleepy wooziness evaporated in a heart-fluttering rush. He smelled of sandalwood, and my head was spinning. I licked his lips. He tasted so good. A hoarse male noise escaped his mouth. Yes, growl for me.

  His hand stroked the back of my neck, his teeth bit my lower lip, and I gasped as my breath caught in my throat. Heat warmed my skin from within, each sensation magnified. I felt so alive. I wanted his hands on me. I wanted the heat of his rough fingers on my skin. I wanted him inside me. I opened my mouth, shocked at the thought, and he took it, his tongue brushing mine and withdrawing, perfectly in tune with my breath, conquering and seducing, teasing and pulling back, pretending I could get away and then claiming my mouth as his.

  A velvet heat dripped down the back of my neck, a phantom molten honey sizzling on my skin, as Rogan’s magic bound us. It slid down my spine, inch by inch, setting every nerve on fire in its wake, my body eager for the repeat of ecstasy it remembered. Oh my God, how could this feel so good?

  Rogan’s hand slid over my chest to cup my breast. Yes, yes, please. He took a step up. Another.

  If he came up all the way, we’d have sex right here, right now.

  On my mother’s air mattress.

  I pushed him. For a fraction of a second he stayed where he was, grasping the air for balance, and then he slid down the stairs with a thud.

  I leaned into the opening. He caught himself midway down the ladder, looked up at me, and spread his arms, his face puzzled.

  “What’s going on?” Mom called from somewhere below.

  “Mad Rogan fell down the stairs.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, cringing inside.

  “Does he need a medic?”

  Yes, Rogan mouthed and pointed at me.

  Aha, no, I’m not giving you any sexy healing. “No, he’s fine.”

  Rogan started back up the stairs, his face determined.

  “He’s coming down,” I announced. “Now.”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh, went down the stairs and stayed there. Great. Now I would have to climb down the stairs whil
e he entertained himself by looking at my butt. Maybe he would move.

  He didn’t.

  However, by the time I got down the stairs, he’d slid back into his I’m-a-Prime-and-I-can-kill-you-with-my-pinkie expression. Probably because my mother and my grandmother were both in the vicinity, standing in the doorway of the media room and looking at something on the screen. Leon hovered nearby, gazing at Rogan with all of the puppy love his evil teenage heart could muster. For some odd reason, Leon hero-worshiped Rogan with the passion of a thousand burning suns.

  I went to the media room. Rogan followed me. One of his people, an African American woman, sat cross-legged on the floor by a laptop connected to our TV with a cord. The other, a trim athletic man in his forties, sat on the couch, leaning forward and keeping most of his weight on his feet, expecting to jump up any moment. An image of an iced-over overpass stretched on the screen and the view was flying down the ice, veering left and right.

  Mom and Grandma Frida had identical expressions on their faces: dark and angry.

  “Troy should get a raise,” I murmured.

  “He will,” Rogan promised, his voice hard. “Thank you for saving his life.”

  “I didn’t . . .”

  “I’ve already watched this,” Rogan said. “You did. Thank you for taking care of him.”

  On the recording I snapped, “Open the window!”

  I hadn’t realized I barked like that.

  The woman’s hands flew on the laptop keyboard. The view switched to the rear camera and the windshield of the 4Runner fractured.

  “Clean kill,” Mom said.

  “What?”

  “Zoom in,” Mom said.

  The recording rewound a few seconds and crept forward at a fraction of the normal speed, zooming in on the windshield. The bullets tore into the glass and punched the dark shape in the passenger seat. It jerked and went limp. That’s why nobody came out of the 4Runner after the illusion mage. I’d killed the passenger.

  “That’s a hell of a shot,” Rogan’s man said.

  Mom turned to Grandma Frida. “Threat-based?”

  “Probably.” Grandma Frida grimaced. “Well, at least Bernard takes after me.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.