White Hot

by Ilona Andrews

  Lie. Outright, direct, bold lie. He knew.

  “Did you know Elena?” he asked.

  “No,” I told him. “I met her husband.”

  I focused on him so completely my voice sounded like it was coming out of a stranger’s mouth.

  “Ah.” He’d sunk a world of meaning into that one sound.

  “Elena is dead. Someone has to pay for it,” I told him. My magic slid tighter around him.

  His smile fled. “A bit of advice. Don’t go digging in that grave. I don’t know what hold you have on Montgomery and Rogan, but they won’t risk themselves for your sake.”

  In my head, somehow, he was glowing, an almost silvery figure with a dark spot to one side of his silhouette, on the left side of his skull. He was hiding something in that spot and I needed to get at it. I was concentrating so hard my head threatened to burst.

  “She came to see you before she died.”

  “You know too much about this.” He was staring at me carefully.

  Gently, delicately I pulled the noose of my magic around him, tethering him to me. I pushed him, steering his answers to the place I wanted him to go.

  “Did she leave anything with you?”

  The spot turned darker. Yes, yes she had. What could she have given him?

  “A memento of your relationship, perhaps?” The vision of the freckled soldier tossing a USB drive out of the window flashed before me. “A USB drive containing documents meant to be released after her death?”

  “That would be terribly cliché, wouldn’t it?”

  Sweat broke on my hairline. Blood pounded through the veins in my head. “She’s been dead for days and you haven’t gone public. Are you scared, Gabriel?”

  “She gave me nothing.”

  Lie.

  He smiled, a casual easy grin. “And you and I are not on a first-name basis.”

  I smiled back. “Did you look at it?”

  Nothing.

  I needed to nudge him, just a little tiny bit, so he wouldn’t feel it. Just a tiny bit . . .

  The dark spot faded slightly in response to my magic.

  “As I said, she left me nothing. And if she had, if such a thing existed, I would have the good sense to put it somewhere safe from the outside world. Somewhere it would stay buried.”

  “You looked at it.” I smiled wider. Circles swam before my eyes. I could barely see. “Where would it be buried?”

  The dark spot faded completely for a moment.

  “It’s safe in my bedroom.”

  My hold on him slipped.

  Baranovsky frowned. “My dear, as I said, if it existed, I would’ve destroyed it long ago.”

  He didn’t even realize what he’d told me while under the influence of my magic. If that was accurate, then his memory of this conversation would be completely different from mine.

  Baranovsky shrugged, his expression disappointed. “This conversation started out promising but sadly devolved into minutiae. I have no time for banality. Enjoy the rest of the party.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Get off the balcony before you get shot.

  I forced myself to slowly walk into the hallway, resisting the urge to sag against the balcony rail. My chest hurt. My stomach too. Circles swam before my eyes.

  Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe . . .

  I kept walking, without really seeing where or what was happening until I came to a staircase. Rogan caught up with me. I leaned on his arm and he walked me down into the ballroom. He was practically carrying my weight on his arm.

  “Easy,” he said under his breath. “One step at a time.”

  “I’m going to fall over and embarrass both of us.”

  “You won’t fall over. I’ll keep you up.”

  I leaned even more onto his rock-solid arm. I had to keep walking.

  “Did you overextend?” Rogan asked, his voice controlled.

  “A little.”

  “Does Baranovsky know?” He was asking if he needed to fight his way out of the gala.

  “He didn’t feel it. I was very careful, which is why I’m having trouble walking. She gave him a copy of the USB. He said it’s safe in his bedroom. Exact quote.”

  The stairway ended. I tried to turn right toward the door, but Rogan turned left taking me with him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To find Augustine.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Baranovsky maintains a workstation in his quarters. It’s not connected to the Internet and can’t be hacked from the outside. Any document uploaded to it is safe.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Rogan smiled, a narrow parting of lips. “I bribed his cleaning crew. There are few people more motivated than a parent with a child accepted into an Ivy League college and no way to pay for it.”

  “Can you use them to get at his computer?”

  “No. It’s too risky. That’s why we have to find Augustine.”

  Augustine was an illusion Prime. He could assume any form. “You want Augustine to become Baranovsky, go to the bedroom, and get the data from his computer?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’ll get him killed,” I murmured.

  “He once walked around CIA headquarters for three hours, passing fingerprint and retina scanners.” Rogan’s mouth quirked. “Until they figure out how to do an instant DNA check, no facility is secure from Augustine. This will be child’s play.”

  Ahead, Augustine stepped up from behind a group of people and began making his way to us.

  “Connor,” a woman called from the left.

  Rogan glanced in the direction of the voice. His face softened and he halted. “Rynda.”

  A red-haired woman smiled at Rogan. She was about his age, slender, willowy even, with a heart-shaped face framed by loose waves of copper hair, a flawless complexion, and bright grey eyes, so light they almost glowed silver. I recognized her instantly. Her name was Rynda Charles, Rynda Sherwood now, after she married, and at some point in the distant past Rogan had been supposed to marry her. He’d mentioned it once in a casual conversation and I had looked her up.

  “It’s nice to see you,” Rynda said. “Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

  “It’s not,” he said. “How are Brian and the kids?”

  “Great.” She smiled again. She had a dazzling smile, the kind that lit up her whole face. If you put us side by side in identical dresses and let ten people into the room, they would flock to her, while I would be left standing alone. That was perfectly fine with me. I didn’t want anyone’s attention.

  It hit me like a ton of bricks. I wanted Rogan’s attention. I was jealous, and my jealousy was a full-blown monster with needles, fangs, and claws. In my mind, Rogan was mine.

  Crap. When did this even happen?

  I chanced a quick glance at them. They were talking to each other with the easy familiarity of old friends. They looked good together. Rogan—huge, hard, and wrapped in broody darkness—and Rynda: sweet, light, almost delicate. And here I was, the third wheel, wanting to slap that sweet delicate smile right off Rynda’s face.

  “Jessica is in the first grade and Kyle will be starting school next year,” Rynda reported. “Can you believe it? I’ll be all alone.”

  “Feeling abandoned already?” Rogan asked.

  “Yes. I know it’s completely irrational.”

  I glanced in Augustine’s direction. Rescue me. Please, before she notices I exist and I make a fool of myself.

  He was moving toward us, but not nearly fast enough for my liking.

  “Who is your companion?” Rynda asked.

  “Nobody,” I said.

  Rogan glanced at me, surprised.

  “We’re not together,” Rynda said. “We never were.”

  If I could’ve disappeared into thin air, I would’ve. “I’m sorry, I think you misunderstood the nature of our relationship. Mr. Rogan isn’t my date. I work for House Montgomery, and he was simply kind enough to es
cort me. I think I see Augustine over there. Excuse me.”

  I tried to separate myself from Rogan, but he slid his arm around my waist. I wasn’t going anywhere without drawing attention to myself.

  Rynda peered into my eyes. “No, stay, please. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable,” I told her. “I simply didn’t want to intrude.”

  “You’re not intruding,” Rogan said.

  And the exact thing I didn’t want to happen happened. Both of them were now focused on me.

  I glanced back at Augustine, desperately hoping he was close. For some reason he turned almost in mid-step and was walking to the left. In his place an older woman who looked like a carbon copy of Rynda except twenty years older was marching toward us.

  “Your mother is coming,” Rogan said.

  “I know. Can you hear the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’?” Rynda sighed. “You probably should run.”

  “Too late,” Rogan said.

  Mrs. Charles stopped next to us and raised her eyebrows at me, then glanced at Rogan as if he was some dirty homeless person come to beg for change as she exited her limo.

  “It’s too late for regrets, Connor.”

  Rogan’s face had snapped into his Prime expression, cold and tinted with arrogance. “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Olivia.”

  “No, the pleasure is all mine. It’s been over a decade. My daughter is radiant. Her husband is successful and both of her children are likely to be Primes. And you’re a recluse, reduced to escorting your former college friend’s employee.” She spared me a look. “Couldn’t you have done something about her neck? I’m sure Augustine would do you this small favor. Or have you managed to ruin that relationship as well?”

  “Enough, Mother,” Rynda said.

  Rogan regarded Olivia with mild interest, as if she were an odd insect.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Olivia’s stare could’ve cut like a knife. “I’m quite enjoying my revenge. Fifteen years of financial planning and genetic forecasts ruined, because he wanted to play soldier.”

  She turned back to me. “Let me explain things to you, my dear. If you ever hope to make something of yourself, you will walk away from this man as fast as your feet will carry you. You stand here, in what is probably a borrowed dress, and you think that because your hand is on his arm, you’re Cinderella with a head full of dreams and he’s your wonderful prince.”

  “Mother!” Rynda snapped.

  “In reality, you’re an adornment, like a scarf that happened to complement his outfit. He doesn’t care about you beyond the fleeting benefit you can provide. And when he is done, he’ll discard you in the back of his closet, where you will linger, forgotten and still hoping, while your dreams wither and die one by one.”

  Her magic rose behind her like a nest of invisible snakes slithering to me. Her voice reverberated through my skull, reaching deep into my mind.

  “You better run, my dear. Run fast and hard, and never look back. Go on.”

  Her magic crashed against me, a powerful hard surge pushing me to leave, and broke against my own. A psionic.

  I could’ve stared into her eyes and fired back. Her will was strong, frightening even, but so was mine. And if I won, I’d make her spill every dirty secret she had on this floor. I wanted to so badly.

  Instead, I turned around, broke free of Rogan, and hurried off, seemingly in the random direction that would take me to Augustine.

  Rogan laughed quietly behind me.

  You idiot, I’m pretending to run for my life. Don’t ruin it.

  Rynda’s voice was brittle. “Are you happy now?”

  “I’ll be happy when he dies alone,” her mother said.

  “Always a pleasure, Olivia,” Rogan said, his voice amused.

  The crowd ignored me, concentrating on Rogan and Olivia. Nobody openly watched, but most glanced at them, some with interest, others with alarm. Baranovsky viewed the show from his favorite spot on the second floor by the stairs. He was sipping champagne from a flute, his face wearing an amused expression.

  Augustine stepped into my way. I pretended to bump into him.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I’m very publicly fleeing Olivia Charles and her magic,” I whispered to him. “I’m distraught. You should calm me down somewhere out of sight, where nobody will realize that two Baranovskys is one too many.”

  “Of course,” Augustine said, putting a protective arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go this way.”

  Rogan said something to Olivia, but we were too far to hear.

  Augustine led me to the side, aiming for a hallway. “What would this second Baranovsky be doing?”

  “Getting a copy of Elena’s USB from the computer in his bedroom.”

  “Splendid,” Augustine said. “This will be fun.”

  Behind us glass shattered. I whipped around.

  Gabriel Baranovsky clutched at his throat. Blood poured from his neck, shocking against his pale skin. He stumbled, poised above the stairs, like some odd bird about to take flight, and plunged down. His shoulder crunched, connecting with the steps. His body flipped, his head bouncing off the red carpet, slid, and came to rest midway down the staircase, his unseeing eyes staring straight at the ceiling.

  The two bodyguards pointed guns at the crowd.

  Nobody screamed. Nobody rushed to help.

  The silence was deafening.

  The entire mass of people turned as one and marched toward the exit, streaming past the guards, out of hallways, and down the stairs. Instantly bodies flooded the space around us, all moving in the same direction.

  I tried to fight my way to the hallway, but Augustine grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit. “No! They’ll lock down the mansion! We’ll be trapped here for hours.”

  Damn it.

  The security personnel charged into the room, cutting the crowd in a half. Cornelius appeared by my side. “We have to go!”

  In the middle of the human current, Rogan turned and began striding against the flow of bodies forcing his way in our direction. He probably couldn’t even see us.

  “Rogan!” I called out.

  Ahead a tall blond man turned his head. Our stares connected. He smiled.

  I had seen that smile before through the window of the Suburban.

  “Rogan!” I jerked my phone out of the clutch and held it up, pressing the camera icon to activate burst mode. The phone clicked in staccato, taking a dozen shots of the crowd in rapid succession.

  The blond man turned and melted back into the crowd.

  Behind us metal groaned as the security gates began clanging into place. “Remain calm!” a clipped voice announced from the speakers.

  The crowd double-timed it toward the doors.

  Rogan emerged from the mass of bodies.

  “The guy from the Suburban!” I told him.

  “Where?” he snarled.

  I stabbed in the direction of the exit. I couldn’t even see him anymore. Too many people between us and the doors. We’d never catch up to him.

  Rogan raised his hand.

  The wall to the left of us exploded. Chunks of marble littered the floor, spilling outside into the cold rainy night.

  “Exit stage left,” Cornelius murmured next to me.

  I kicked off my shoes, hiked up my dress, and scrambled over the rubble out of Baranovsky’s mansion.

  Chapter 10

  The glamorous Houston elite was evacuating at full speed. Several wind mages took off into the night sky while circles ignited with blue fire as the teleporters popped out of existence, leaving their arcane footprints on the pavement. Helicopters hovered overhead, cars streamed out of the parking lot. Chaos reigned. I spent ten minutes in the pandemonium, looking for the ice mage, before Rogan practically dragged me away and loaded me into his armored SUV. Cornelius and Augustine both jumped in with us and the SUV took off.

  I scrolled through the images on my pho
ne. I had taken thirty-two pictures. Of those, three showed the mage as he smiled, turned, and looked away. I got three quarters of the face, a profile, and the back of his head. The shots were lousy, his features blurry, but it should be enough for Bug.

  I tried to email the pictures to myself. No signal. Damn it.

  “Give me your phone, please,” I asked Rogan.

  He handed it to me. I zoomed in on the best shot of the mage, took a picture of my phone with Rogan’s, and handed it back. Just in case.

  Rogan stared at the image and shook his head. I passed my phone to Augustine.

  “He looks familiar.” Augustine frowned. “I’ve met him, but I can’t recall when or where.” He offered the phone to Cornelius.

  “I don’t recognize him,” Cornelius murmured, his gaze boring into the mage. “Do you think he killed Nari?”

  “We don’t know that,” I said, jumping in there before anybody else had a chance to say anything or Cornelius decided to leap out of the car and go back to look for the ice mage. “We know that an ice mage was involved. We know that this ice mage tried to kill me. We don’t know anything else.”

  “But there must be a connection,” Cornelius insisted.

  “There probably is one.” I was trying my best to sound calm and reasonable. “Remember, I promised you proof. We must be certain before we take action.”

  Cornelius squeezed his hand into a fist. “He might still be back there.”

  “We’ll get him,” I promised.

  “We have his face,” Rogan said, his voice reassuring. “There is no place he can hide now.”

  An hour later we piled through the doors of Rogan’s HQ, located in a large two-story building a street away from our warehouse. Judging by the open first floor, it might have been some sort of industrial building, but it was now filled with vehicles and people. We got out and crossed the floor to the left, climbed the stairs, and emerged onto the second floor, elevated high above the concrete expanse of the first. This space was wide open as well. A metal frame had been erected in the middle of it, holding nine computer screens and braids of cables. In front of the screen Bug sat in his chair, with Napoleon sleeping on what looked like a dog-sized padded throne of red fabric decorated with gold fleur-de-lis. He saw us, but decided our presence wasn’t incentive enough to bestir himself.