White Hot

by Ilona Andrews

  “Pause it,” Mom said. The woman paused the recording.

  “You and your mom get your shooting from your grandfather,” Grandma Frida said. “You more than her. Your Grandpa Leon was crap with a sniper rifle, but if he were under fire, he returned it with deadly accuracy. That’s the way his magic worked. Penelope lies there with her rifle and goes to her happy place, but you have to have people shooting at you to hit the target.”

  “Dual,” Rogan said and smiled. He had a really smug expression on his face, like a cat who’d snuck into the pantry and stolen a bag of catnip.

  “Keep going,” Mom said.

  I would have to ask him later what that meant.

  The recording restarted. We crashed. A demon got out of the car and walked toward the camera, his trench coat flaring. A smirk curved his lips, baring serrated teeth. Wow. True illusion. There were several kinds of illusion magic. Cloaker mages could make you invisible, but they accomplished it by affecting the minds of others, and a camera would still record you as you were. True illusion mages, like Augustine, not only affected minds, but also altered their physical appearance. Their reflection and pictures showed only what they wanted you to see.

  The view switched to the internal camera. I sat petrified on the back seat, breathing fast through my mouth. My pupils were so large that my eyes looked completely black on a bloodless face. I wanted to close my eyes, but instead I watched myself fry him. I’d taken his life. I had to own it.

  The doorbell chimed.

  “I got it!” Arabella chirped from somewhere inside the house.

  “Bug scrambled the footage from the toll road,” Rogan said. “The cops got to the 4Runner before my people did, but you have nothing to worry about.”

  “They will find bullets from my gun in his car,” I said.

  “Yes. And I’ve sent an excellent lawyer down there to explain that the car was used to attack one of my vehicles. You may have to give a statement at some point.”

  “That’s it?”

  “House wars, House rules,” Rogan said. “They aren’t interested unless a civilian is involved and often not even then.”

  “What about the car itself?”

  “It was stolen this morning from an office building’s parking lot. The Suburban was appropriated from another office building, and neither lot had cameras pointing in that specific direction. And this guy’s prints aren’t in any databases so far.”

  “So we have no leads.”

  “No.” Rogan’s eyes hardened. He was looking at something on my neck.

  I pulled out my phone and checked the camera. Red welts marked my throat, four on one side and one on the other. A souvenir from the illusion mage’s fingers.

  “Why did you shoot him in the back?” Leon asked from somewhere to the left. “Head would be better.”

  “Because we need his face for ID.” I turned to Rogan. “I saw one of the people in the Suburban.”

  His eyes lit up.

  “The view wasn’t great,” I said. “It was raining. But I’m sure it was the ice mage. He was in his thirties, I think. Blond, wearing a suit. It’s not much, but if Bug puts together possible ice mage candidates, I can look at them. He smiled at me.”

  “Smiled?” Rogan said, his face dark. “I’ll remember that.”

  My imagination painted him standing over the blond mage, holding the man’s guts in his hand. Okay then.

  On the screen, I was driving, my eyes empty. I looked like a zombie. We had to be on the right track, at least. Rogan’s people were iced before they died. Only an ice Prime could’ve frozen that overpass so quickly and completely. Something we had done had convinced Nari’s murderer that either I or Rogan was a threat.

  Troy said something. I replied, my eyes scanning the windshield. I didn’t quite have the thousand-yard stare, but it was close. Anxiety splashed me in a cold gush, an echo of driving to the warehouse expecting to be forced off the road any second. I felt the urge to cross my arms to try to put some distance between me now and me on that screen.

  A warm hand touched me. Rogan’s strong fingers wrapped around mine, forging a link between us. He didn’t look at me, his gaze still on the recording. He just held my hand, anchoring me here and now. I’d survived. I’d made it, and now the look in his eyes promised me that he would put himself between me and whatever tried to hurt me next. I could’ve jerked my hand away, but I didn’t. I held on to him.

  “You need to switch to Akula tires,” Grandma Frida said. “See how the vehicle is lurching? Akula has thicker inserts and an inflated inner chamber.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” Rogan said.

  “This way,” my sister said.

  I turned and leaned to glance out of the room. Augustine Montgomery was striding down the hallway toward me, with Arabella by his side. My mother had never forgotten that he’d threatened to terminate our mortgage to force me to apprehend Adam Pierce. If she saw him, she’d probably murder him.

  “I’ll be right back,” I announced, slipped my hand out of Rogan’s hold, and left the room to intercept the incoming disaster.

  Arabella offered me a cherubic smile.

  “Why did you let him in?” I hissed in a loud whisper.

  “Because he’s so very beautiful.”

  Augustine was remarkably beautiful today. His skin all but glowed, his frost-blond hair barely short of perfect. The quality of his illusion was off the charts.

  “He’s too old for you. You can’t just let someone in the house because you think they’re pretty.”

  Augustine’s eyes narrowed. He must’ve seen Rogan behind me.

  “What are you doing here?” Rogan asked, his voice suffused with menace.

  “What are you doing here?” Augustine snapped, his gaze fixed on Rogan.

  “Shhh!” I hissed. “Into the office, before people see us.” My mother had stopped coming into the office when I formally took on the leading role in our firm. I didn’t care, but she considered it to be my professional domain.

  I herded everyone in and shut the door behind me.

  “Ms. Baylor . . .” Augustine pushed his glasses up his nose.

  Arabella snapped a picture of Augustine.

  “Stop that,” Augustine and I said at the same time.

  “Augustine, don’t tell my sister what to do. Arabella, stop it.”

  “Why do you even associate with him?” Augustine pointed his hand at Rogan. “Was your last adventure not enough?”

  Most people, even Primes, gave Rogan a wide berth. Augustine met him head on. He and Rogan had gone to college together and at one point they’d been friends, but now they mostly snarled at each other. The last time they’d met in my office, they nearly destroyed it in their pissing contest. If they tried that again, they would sorely regret it.

  Leon slipped into the office, a slender shadow. Great, more witnesses if anything went wrong.

  Augustine was waiting for my answer.

  “I’m associating with Mr. Rogan because it’s in the best interests of my client—the one you sent to me. They have signed a professional agreement, and I have to abide by its terms.” That sounded a lot better than “because he makes me feel safe and every time I think about kissing him, I feel a little electric thrill.”

  “Mr. Montgomery, was there a point to your visit or did you just come here to critique my choice of professional partners?”

  “You know perfectly well why I’m here. I warned you it was a terrible idea and I was right.”

  I took a deep breath. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Augustine blinked. “Don’t any of you watch the news?”

  I tapped my keyboard to get my PC to wake up. “What am I looking for?”

  “Amy Madrid, press conference.”

  A dozen links popped up. I clicked the first one. An older woman held seven-year-old Amy in her arms. A man stood next to her, hugging them both. Amy looked like a deer in the headlights.

  I smiled
.

  “Fast forward to the nine-minute and thirty-seven-second mark.”

  I did.

  “. . . finally found . . .” some reporter was saying.

  “It was the Lady in Green,” Amy’s mother said, the words bursting out of her. “They told me. She made him tell her where our daughter was. We love you. Thank you, thank you for saving our daughter. We’ll never forget. Eres una santa . . .”

  The mike died. A man in a suit clamped his hand over it and called out, “That is all for today.”

  “You?” Rogan asked, his expression resigned.

  “She would’ve died,” I told him.

  Rogan turned to Augustine. “And you helped her do this? How many lunchtime martinis did you have before it seemed like a good idea?”

  Augustine recoiled in outrage. “I tried to talk her out of it. She wanted to just walk into the police station. I helped her do it as anonymously and secretly as possible.”

  Rogan crossed his arms. “Someone told that woman exactly what took place. The video has two million views already. Now she is a damned urban legend. If that’s your definition of secret, you need to get your head examined.”

  “Her face and her entire body was obscured. Anyway, I didn’t come here to be insulted.” He turned to me. “I came here to warn you, just like I did before. This act will have consequences, ones you’re likely unable to anticipate. Make your preparations.”

  Sure, let me get right on that. “If I can’t anticipate the consequences, how can I prepare for them?”

  “That’s for you to figure out.” Augustine turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Rogan said, a speculative look on his face. “I’d like to show you something.”

  Augustine grimaced. “Is it work related at least?”

  “Yes. Nevada, may we enter the motor pool?”

  “Follow me. Quietly, please. I don’t want to upset my mother.” I opened the door and checked the hallway. Clear.

  “Why would your mother be upset that I’m here?” Augustine asked.

  “Think about it,” I said. “It will come to you.”

  We crossed the hallway and I opened the door to the motor pool.

  “Is this about that nonsense of me being a terrible person?” Augustine asked.

  Rogan strode through the motor pool, heading for the Range Rover parked in the middle and watched over by a Hispanic woman.

  Augustine squinted at the two track vehicles—a tank and a mobile flamethrower. “What exactly does your grandmother do?”

  “She tinkers,” I told him.

  Augustine opened his mouth to say something else, saw the mangled Range Rover, and closed his mouth.

  Rogan walked up to the stretcher covered with a dark brown tarp they must’ve stolen from Grandma Frida and nodded to the woman. “Thank you, Tiana. Take a break.”

  “Yes, Major.” Tiana trotted outside.

  Rogan pulled the tarp, revealing the illusion mage’s face. “Do you know this asshole?”

  Leon and Arabella climbed up on the nearest track vehicle to get a better view.

  Augustine grimaced. “Yes. I do know this asshole. Who did he go after?”

  “Me,” I said.

  “Did he look something like this?” Augustine took off his glasses. His flesh boiled. He expanded, growing to eight feet. Enormous leathery wings thrust out from his shoulders, issuing a challenge. Muscle sheathed his tree-trunk legs, covered in mottled python scales. Hooves formed over his feet. Carved arms stretched forward, armed with razor sharp talons. The horrible face stared at me with ruby red eyes, dripping fire onto the cheeks. A mane of bright roiling flames fell onto his shoulders and back.

  “Holy crap!” Leon almost fell off his perch.

  Arabella laughed. I threw her a warning glance. Don’t you do it. The last thing we needed was for her to show off.

  The demon flexed his colossal shoulders. I could feel the heat of the fire. I smelled it. How was that even possible? The other guy’s illusion had looked real. This felt real. I swallowed.

  “Yes, he looked like that. Except he was a foot shorter and there were no flames. He had a hood.”

  “Dilettante,” the demon said in Augustine’s voice. “Living fire takes concentration.”

  The demon deflated in a rush, snapping back into Augustine. He slid his glasses back on. “Philip McRaven. Also known as Azazel, mostly because he attempted to get everyone he ever worked with to call him that. He cost me a great deal of money.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “He was a Significant, related to the San Antonio McRavens. They excised him twelve years ago for various offenses and when I met him, he was working as a free agent. He advertised himself as a decent tracker. We were looking to expand our staff and I can always find use for a good illusion mage, especially one with a secondary talent. In addition to being an illusion mage, he was also an upper-range Average psionic.”

  That explained the panic.

  “I put him on a skip trace. One of the Houses had a runaway spouse who married into the House and six months later took off.”

  “Took the good silver?” I asked.

  “Nothing so pedestrian. He made his getaway in a California Spyder.”

  “Good taste,” Rogan said.

  I glanced at him.

  “It’s a 1961 Ferrari. Only fifty-three ever made,” Rogan explained.

  “The last one to come on the market sold for seven million,” Augustine said, his voice dry. “The man was a gambler who used to frequent Vegas. A relatively easy job. McRaven was to find him and call in the local team so we could deliver him and the car back to his heartbroken wife. McRaven found the runaway, put on his demon routine, and then choked the man to death. To add insult to injury, the thief voided his bowels while still in the car.”

  “How inconsiderate of him.” Rogan’s expression was perfectly placid.

  “Yes, how dare he ruin the upholstery,” I murmured.

  Our sarcasm flew right over Augustine’s head. “It’s incredibly difficult to remove the stench of human waste once it soaks into the carpet fibers. I almost killed McRaven. When I asked him why he did it, I got psychosis on parade with all flags flying and a marching band. According to him, he had done it because he liked, and I quote, ‘to see light go out of their eyes as they wet themselves in terror.’”

  “Charming,” I said. Whatever mild tinges of guilt I felt about killing a man who’d tried to murder me evaporated.

  “I seriously considered making him disappear,” Augustine said.

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked.

  “One, he was my employee. There were plenty of warning signs in his background check, so the fault was mine for hiring this psychopath in the first place. And two, his mother came to see me from San Antonio. The McRavens may not be a full-fledged House, but there are four Significants in that family and now they owe me a favor.” Augustine studied Rogan for a long moment. “How do you fit into this? What are you involved in?”

  “I’d tell you but I’d have to kill you,” Rogan said.

  Nobody laughed.

  “You should wink next time you make a joke,” I told Rogan. “So people know when to laugh.”

  “I’m not joking,” he said.

  “He isn’t.” Augustine pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Except I’m obviously not trembling in terror. Let me break this down for you. I own the largest investigative firm in Houston. Obtaining information is literally what I do for a living. I’m now intrigued enough to divert resources from other, profitable ventures, to look into this. I will put the two of you under enough surveillance that you won’t be able to breathe. I’ll bug your offices and your vehicles, I’ll hack your computers, and I’ll have you followed by people who change their faces and bodies with a thought. You can devote an enormous amount of resources to fight me off or you could just tell me, because we all know I’ll figure it out in the end. I can be a nuisance or I can be an ally. Your choice. Either way is fun for me.”r />
  Rogan considered it.

  Augustine waited.

  Rogan leaned back. “Do you know how Forsberg’s people were killed?”

  Augustine peered at him through his glasses. “You realize I referred Harrison to Nevada?”

  “I meant, do you know what really happened?”

  “No, but I’m all ears.”

  I sighed and headed to the counter, where Grandma Frida’s coffeemaker waited. This would be a long conversation and I needed coffee for it.

  By the time Rogan was done talking, we’d moved back into my office, since there was less chance of discovery there. I chased Leon and Arabella off, then checked up on Mom and Grandma and told them I was discussing things with Rogan just in case they decided to look for me. I was on my second cup of coffee, it was barely eight o’clock, and I was still sleepy.

  Augustine took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. A modern angel, urbane, well-dressed, and carrying a briefcase filled with savage weapons.

  “So there is a conspiracy, probably involving several major Houses. To what end?”

  “They are trying to destabilize Houston’s status quo,” Rogan said.

  “Yes, but what’s the end game?” Augustine frowned. “They’re committing a great deal of money and resources. There are only a handful of reasons that motivate people to risk that much of their assets.”

  “Power, greed, or revenge,” I said.

  Augustine nodded. “Precisely. Let’s say Adam had succeeded and Houston’s downtown is in ruins. The stock market crashes. Theoretically, one could make money from that crash, but the local economy would be recovering for years. Long-term outlook for doing business is poor.”

  “Not only that, but backlash against the Houses would spike,” Rogan said. “It would make sense if one of the anti-House radical groups was involved, but this is coming from within House elite. You know what this means. It will eventually explode.”

  “And when it does, everyone will have to pick a side.” Augustine sighed again. “I don’t like it. I don’t like not knowing what the hell is going on. In fact, I make it my life’s mission to know what is going on at all times.”

  Out of Augustine’s view, Rogan rolled his eyes.