White Hot

by Ilona Andrews

  I reached into my pocket and found a piece of chalk. We’d probably need a circle . . .

  Ahead five children waited on the sidewalk, all elementary school students holding hands, a single middle-aged woman with them. The theater district was just down the street. That was all we needed, panicking kids. A hell of a time for a school trip.

  The older woman turned her head. Pale brown hair, attractive face with high, pronounced cheekbones, pale pink lipstick, wide eyes under high arches of eyebrows plucked to thread-thin lines, and the look in those eyes . . . The look of deep, intense satisfaction. Kelly Waller. Rogan’s cousin.

  The children walked into the street, holding hands, a human barricade that blocked our way.

  “Rogan!” I screamed.

  We were going too fast. He’d never stop in time.

  Rogan threw the wheel to the right. The Range Rover punched through the narrow opening in the Tranquility Park’s wall. I caught a glimpse of a concrete picnic table. The Range Rover smashed into it with a sickening crunch. The airbag punched me in the face. The momentum jerked me forward, the seat belt burning my shoulder. The heavy car flew, airborne for a torturous moment, and plunged down, rolling into the grass. We stopped upright, the air bags hanging limp from the dash. I tasted blood in my mouth.

  “Nevada?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Rogan snarled like an animal and yanked his seat belt off, his face inhuman, aggression rolling off him like heat.

  I had to get out of the car. I clicked my seat belt, jerked the door open, and stepped onto the grass. White chalk lines burst into cold flame around us. We were inside an arcane circle, so huge it had to be thirty yards across. The symbols pulsed once, the fire surged, and then something reached down my throat with slimy cold hands, grasped my insides, and tried to rip them out of my mouth.

  The ground vanished. I flailed in midair, suspended in some primordial darkness, agony twisting and breaking me, wringing my bones, and then the blackness tore and I collapsed on an ice-cold floor, the pain a fading echo in my joints. My breasts hit a rough cold surface. I was naked. Rogan fell next to me and rolled to his feet, naked.

  I blinked, trying to clear away tears.

  The street was gone. Houston was gone. Instead a football-field-sized stone cavern surrounded us. All around, slender concrete columns stretched in neat rows to support a stone ceiling three stories above us. Round electric lights illuminated the space, glowing with yellow radiance at the top of the columns.

  Arcane lines burned with turquoise around us. We were inside a circle—the most layered and complex circle I had ever seen—drawn on the concrete floor. Inside the circle, that floor was bare, but outside of the lines it was white with frost. A narrow foot-wide channel of power made of perfectly straight lines fed the circle. I raised my head. Ten feet away the channel of power widened into a second, smaller circle. In the middle of it, naked and covered with blue glyphs, sat David Howling.

  “Hello,” he said and smiled.

  It was cold. It was so unbearably cold. I got off the floor and hugged myself, trying to hoard what little heat my body had. Next to me Rogan stood, his shoulders squared, his feet apart, the muscles of his thighs tight as if he were ready to leap forward. Looking at his face, I could hear David’s bones breaking. Unfortunately, he was all the way over there, and we were here, trapped inside the circle.

  It was a hell of a circle too, complex and twisted. The base of it had to come from Pùbù, a higher-level circle named after the Mandarin word for waterfall. Pùbù started as two circles, one large, one small, connected by a narrow channel of power about eighteen inches wide. The smaller circle fed the larger one, the channel focusing and magnifying the mage’s power, like a lens. David had modified it, adding another row of glyphs, a second border, and odd constellations of smaller circles branching out from the outer boundary.

  “Here we are,” David said.

  Rogan’s magic stirred, building slowly, like a hurricane about to be unleashed. I forced myself to stand still. He was about to let himself go and do the thing that had earned him his terrifying nicknames.

  “I wouldn’t advise that,” David said, his voice casual. “Look around you, Rogan. This place should look familiar. Let me jog your memory. You’re a Crownover Raven, like me. History of Houston Houses, a required course for high school graduation in the Crownover Academy? The obligatory cistern-viewing trip, spiced by the lecture on John Pike and Melissa Crownover’s duel? Any of it ring a bell?”

  Rogan looked around. His magic died as if snuffed out.

  I looked at him.

  He shook his head, his face grim.

  “For the lovely lady’s benefit,” David said, “this cistern is one of many underground water reservoirs the Houses of Houston built after 1878. This particular cistern belonged to House Pike. It’s located only a proverbial stone’s throw from Buffalo Bayou, and is sitting under what is now Pike University, approximate capacity at this hour about three thousand students. Give or take.”

  Memories of a crumbling downtown floated before me, the buildings around us shattering as pulses of Rogan’s power fractured them while he floated within the circle, his face otherworldly and serene. When Rogan used the magic that made him the Butcher of Merida, it didn’t just generate a null field. It punched a hole in reality. Nothing could touch him within that circle, but his power would pierce straight through the rock and the campus above us. The first pulse of his magic would crumble the ground above us, and the next would trigger a collapse. Even if I managed to stop Rogan again, as I had done before, by the time we were done, the campus would be in ruins, partially buried, and the waters of Buffalo Bayou rushing into the depression would drown the survivors. We would survive. Nobody else would make it.

  The temperature dropped. I shivered. So cold.

  Rogan stepped close to me, wrapping his big body about mine. The warmth of him felt so good, and I locked my arms around him. I didn’t want him to die.

  “This wasn’t my idea,” David said. “I prefer quick, precise kills, but apparently there are some specific plans for your corpses. I’m instructed to kill you without any obvious wounds or damage to extremities and your faces, which eliminates my usual range of weapons and leaves us with hypothermia. Unfortunately, teleportation transports only living things. Thus we find ourselves here, naked, with no shreds of dignity left. I don’t like confrontations, and quite frankly, this entire situation is rather distasteful. This space is quite large, so I’ll need another twenty to thirty minutes. As deaths go, this one is long, but the pain lessens the closer you are to expiring. It will be easier once confusion sets in. At some point you might even feel warm. I’ve had people dance in delirium before. They went into the Great Beyond never knowing they were leaving. Try to relax.”

  If only I could get my hands on him, I’d wipe that smug smile right off his damn face.

  Rogan stroked my back. The harsh expression on his face told me everything I needed to know. We were trapped. The inner boundary of our circle cut us off from the rest of the world and from David. Nobody knew where we were. No help was coming. We would die here, naked, while David Howling looked on and smiled.

  The cold was unbearable now. My teeth chattered. My knees wanted to knock together.

  I shifted from foot to foot and stepped on something hard. Pulling away from Rogan and the warmth physically hurt. I crouched down, hugging my knees, as if trying to keep warm, keeping my body between David and whatever I’d stepped on. I felt around with my hand and found the familiar shape. The piece of chalk I had clutched in my hand as I had gotten out of the car. I almost cried. Instead I stood up and wrapped my arms around Rogan again.

  “Inconsiderate of you,” Rogan said, looking at David. His voice was calm.

  “I did the best I could. Teleportation is tricky business,” David said. “Nobody wanted you to end up as a human version of the Wisconsin cannibal sandwich. If it came to it, they would accept such a death, but it c
ertainly wasn’t ideal. Teleportation required a place that was relatively close and large enough to absorb the teleportation echo, while I required an isolated, enclosed area with high moisture located somewhere where your penchant for urban destruction wouldn’t be an issue.”

  “Still, the risk was too high. Over fifty percent of teleportations fail.”

  David shook his head. “Neither of you had any major surgeries requiring inorganic components. I did take a chance on Ms. Baylor not having breast implants. Fortunately for all of us I was right, otherwise things would’ve gotten quite messy. The only wild factor was whether or not you would drive over the children, but after the incident at Antonio de Trevino’s house, I was reasonably certain you would do everything in your power to avoid it. Principles make us predictable. We all have the lines we don’t cross. Yours simply happened to be one of the more obvious ones.”

  “Compounds of organic origin,” I said. My voice sounded hoarse.

  “I’m sorry, what?” David asked.

  “Teleportation doesn’t affect living things. It affects compounds of organic origin.”

  “Yes, but I fail to see your point. Even if one of you wore something made of pure cotton or silk, it would only prolong your death by a couple of minutes.”

  I fixed him with my stare and offered Rogan the chalk. His eyes shone. He kissed me, hard, gripping me to him. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a declaration of war and I reveled in it. He let go of me.

  “How do we get out of this circle?” I asked him.

  “We kill him,” he said.

  “Good. Let’s kill him and go home.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Rogan turned and studied the circle, chalk in his hand.

  “Well, this is an exciting development.” David’s smile remained glued in place, but his eyes betrayed a hint of doubt.

  Rogan stared at the lines, his gaze calculating. His lips were turning blue.

  He would figure it out. If anyone could, he would be the one.

  The cold seeped into my bones. My breath flittered from my lips, a pale cloud of vapor, carrying the precious warmth with it. I was so tired, but my heart was racing, and I couldn’t get it under control. My stomach begged for food, as if I hadn’t eaten for days. My body realized I was freezing to death and desperately sought a source of fuel to warm itself.

  Rogan turned to me. “Do you remember what you told me in the elevator?”

  I’d told him several things in the elevator.

  “Does that promise still stand?”

  What promise? What did I say? He had grabbed Cornelius; I told him to let go of my client; he had, and then I said . . . Try that again and I’ll shock you into oblivion.

  “Yes,” I told him.

  He pointed to a spot opposite and a little to the left of where the channel leading from David to us joined our circle. “Stand here.”

  I moved to the spot. He hugged me to him, quickly, let go, crouched, and drew a perfect semicircle around my feet, cutting me off from the rest of the interior space. I had barely a foot and a half around me. Rogan stood up, his eyes meeting mine. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but the chalk line separated us and I could feel the first hints of power trickling through it.

  “Trust me,” Rogan said.

  I nodded.

  “It’s pointless, you know,” David said. “You can’t break this circle. Even if by some miracle you could, it would accomplish nothing. Some changes are as inevitable as the rising of the tide.”

  Rogan went down to one knee and began to draw. “You’ve made a concerted effort to destabilize Houston. What is it you want?” His voice was casual, as if we were having lunch somewhere.

  “Me personally or us as collective?”

  “Both.”

  “Personally I get to witness the public destruction of House Howling.”

  “Hate your brother and sister that much, huh?” My teeth clicked. It was hard to talk. The temperature dropped again.

  David shrugged. “It’s the usual story. Man becomes a widower; man marries a much younger woman; the children from the first marriage see her as the evil usurper of their mother’s memory and make her life a living hell. House Howling wasn’t a pleasant household. As to the collective wants and needs, you should’ve figured it out by now.”

  “Enlighten me.” Rogan sectioned off the circle, drawing perfect lines toward one side. I couldn’t stop trembling. The sheer power of will he had to use to keep his hand from shaking was frightening.

  “History repeats itself,” David said. “You were usually good at history, Rogan. I sat behind you in Classics in your freshman year at Harvard. Professor Cormack was teaching it. The one who started every first lecture with ‘What you need to understand is ancient Greeks were predominantly homosexual.’”

  Rogan kept drawing, creating a network of lines and glyphs on the floor.

  “You don’t remember me. I stayed in the background while you were busy being young and brilliant.”

  “I don’t,” Rogan said.

  “I didn’t think so.” David smiled. The cold bit at me. “You do remember the lessons, however. Rome—corrupt, rich, and disorganized, a republic that ruled the world yet couldn’t rule itself. Its senators fighting for power in vicious political squabbles; the policies of compromise forgotten in favor of personal gain. Its armies pledging their loyalty to their generals rather than to the republic they were meant to serve. Its population torn between the Optimates, supporting the traditional rule, and the Populares, playing for the favor of the unwashed mass of plebs. Mob violence, treachery, murder.”

  “Mhm.” Rogan wrote a string of glyphs along one of the lines and turned on his toes, drawing a perfect circle around himself.

  David craned his neck, tilting his head to the side as he studied the lines.

  Rogan sat cross-legged within the circle he had just made and drew two smaller circles, connecting them to the boundary with precise straight lines.

  “Intriguing. Theoretically possible, but practically you’ll run out of power,” David said. “You’d have to break my hold first.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re trying to save the girl. Whatever path you choose, you’re still dead, Rogan. That much magic expended that quickly comes with a price.”

  Rogan closed his eyes, his face serene.

  “It’s a race then.” David grinned. “Let’s see if I can freeze you first.”

  I couldn’t help with whatever it was Rogan was doing, but I could keep David occupied. As long as David kept talking, he’d be splitting his attention between killing us and thinking. “What’s the point of the history lesson?”

  “Like so many before us, we’re Rome,” David said. “The Houses concern themselves only with personal gains. The concept of true civil service is all but forgotten. Of those who are given much, much is required, and we’re falling short. We’re adrift without any purpose or direction. We believe in nothing and don’t belong to anything. There is honor in service. In standing for something larger than yourself.”

  Dizziness came over me. I fought to keep from swaying.

  “Every Rome has its Caesar,” Rogan said.

  “Indeed,” David said. “We do as well.”

  “So this is the plan?” My words came out garbled. I had to strain to make my lips move. It felt like my feet were turning into chunks of ice. My skin hurt, every muscle underneath awash with icy agony. “Throw Texas into chaos and use it to create a dictatorship? Do you think Texas will just stand for that?”

  “By the time we’re done, they’ll welcome anyone who promises stability with open arms. And our Caesar is beyond reproach. A person of true honor.”

  Keep him talking. “Even if you manage to do it here, the United States won’t stand for it.”

  “It’s a slippery slope,” David said. “Our republic offers an illusion of freedom. You’d be surprised how many people would trade it in for certainty.”

  “And you think this
justifies killing innocent people.”

  “Yes,” David said.

  “Even children?”

  “If necessary. The birth of a new nation is never gentle. If you’re referring to Matilda, I take no pleasure in child murder. I promise that when I tie up that loose end, it will be very quick.”

  That bastard. “And Olivia Charles is okay with you murdering a little girl? Does she have any regrets or guilt over killing Matilda’s mother?”

  “Olivia comes from an old House. She knows what’s required of her and she does it. Whether she feels guilt over killing Nari Harrison, I don’t know.”

  I had my confirmation. Olivia Charles had killed Matilda’s mother. If I survived this, I would bring Cornelius the name of his wife’s murderer.

  Rogan opened his eyes and planted his palms in the two small circles in front of him. Power punched through the circle like a huge gong being struck, melding the new and the old into a unified whole. White light burst from Rogan, running down the chalk lines like fire along the detonation cord, and crashed into the turquoise of the main circle.

  David gritted his teeth. His shoulders shook.

  The white and turquoise struggled, two waves trying to overwhelm each other.

  Every muscle in Rogan’s body went rigid. David’s face shook with strain, as if lifting a weight that was too heavy. He groaned.

  Rogan snarled, baring his teeth. A grimace wrinkled his face. His power coursed through the arcane lines, a raging torrent.

  David jerked; his arms flung back.

  White light claimed the circle, smothering the turquoise.

  “It won’t help you.” David got to his feet, biting out the words like a pissed-off dog. “Do it! I outweigh her by fifty pounds and I’m a trained killer.”

  The hard cords of muscles on Rogan’s arms trembled and the flow of magic halted. Slowly, ever so slowly the power reversed its course, as if Rogan had thrown a rope and was now pulling it in. I didn’t even know this was possible. If he kept pulling on the magic . . .