Master of Fire

by Angela Knight

  “Nice to meet you,” Giada murmured.

  “Karen Harper.” The woman gave Giada’s hand a limp, unenthusiastic squeeze, looking miserably self-conscious in her dusty jeans and SpongeBob T-shirt. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Hey, that’s why the taxpayers pay us the big money,” Logan said easily. “I’m saving up for a Happy Meal.”

  Karen gave the joke a very faint smile as she turned, gesturing them to follow. “My great-grandfather apparently collected an interesting souvenir during World War II.” She grimaced. “The kind that goes boom-yow. I found it while I was cleaning.” Hazel eyes darkened in grief. “Greatgranddad passed last month—heart failure—and we’re getting his house ready to sell.”

  “He put a mortar in his footlocker,” Josh announced earnestly. “It’s explosive. It could blow us all up.”

  “It sure could,” Logan agreed. “Which is why I’m going to get rid of it while you two stay outside at a nice, safe distance.”

  “Oh.” Karen paused to frown thoughtfully up at him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She gestured at the house. “Front door’s unlocked. The stairs to the attic are at the end of the hall. The mortar is in a footlocker in the middle of the floor.” Herding the boy ahead of her, she moved off to wait in the front yard, next to a cluster of pink azaleas.

  “What about me?” Giada asked in a low voice. She might be a civilian, too, but mortar or no mortar, she wasn’t crazy about leaving Logan alone.

  “Actually, handling a mortar is pretty safe if you know what you’re doing, which I do,” he told her. “I just don’t want that boy bouncing around me while I do it. But if you’re not comfortable . . .”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Like I said, I want to watch you do your job. Even the non-chemist parts. You get many cases like this?”

  He nodded as he led the way along a set of paving stones toward the front door. “A lot of World War II soldiers brought home explosive souvenirs. Plus, we had a World War II training camp in the county, and we’re still digging up all kinds of vintage ammo. The bomb squad gets called out to take care of old grenades and mortars about once a month.”

  The screen door banged closed behind them, and Giada heaved a breath of relief. Safe. At least until they went back outside.

  Her heart lightening, she followed Logan down the hallway. The scent of Lemon Pledge did valiant battle with the smell of musty old house. The carpet was worn underfoot, its red flowered pattern faded and crushed from years of padding feet. A passing doorway revealed stacks of boxes sitting on elderly furniture and crowding the scarred wooden floor.

  They climbed one flight of stairs and rounded the corner to ascend steps so narrow, Logan had to angle his broad shoulders sideways to fit between the walls.

  Finally they reached a door that creaked on rusting hinges as Logan pushed it open. Cardboard boxes hulked in the dim light cast by a tiny attic window. A lightbulb festooned with spiderwebs dangled overhead. He gave its chain a tug, spilling a dim yellow glow just bright enough to reveal the words scrawled on the sides of those dusty boxes: “Christmas Decorations,” “Winter Clothing,” and “Charlie’s Toys,” whoever Charlie was.

  “There it is,” Giada said, moving toward the open footlocker that lay just beyond an enormous brown teddy bear that looked like a depressed grizzly.

  The mortar lay on top of a stack of folded uniforms, among a battered green helmet, a pair of cracked leather combat boots, and an ancient pack of Lucky Strikes.

  Logan had shown Giada a training mortar the previous day, so she was familiar with the long metal tube with its nosecone and fins. But unlike the one she’d seen yesterday, the Bakelite cone on this one was pointed. It was definitely a live mortar. “Is it stable?”

  “Oh, yeah. As long as the button on the tip of the cone doesn’t get depressed, it won’t go boom.” Logan sank to one knee to take a closer look.

  Curious, Giada followed suit. For a moment, she felt hyperaware of him, his warmth, his sheer size. Their eyes met. His were very dark. Very . . . male . . .

  Don’t go there, Giada. I do not want to spend the rest of my life catching fl ies with my tongue.

  Logan cleared his throat. “I think we need to take it out to the field in back of the house, dig a nice big hole, put it in with a bursting charge, and blow it the hell up.”

  “Uh-huh.” She forced a grin. “I think you just want to watch it go boom.”

  He grinned back, and her heart gave a helpless little thump at the pure charm in that white smile. “There is no problem that can’t be solved by a suitable application of high explosives.”

  She eyed him. “You’ve been on the bomb squad way too long.”

  “Nope, I’m just male,” he informed her, as if she hadn’t noticed. “The blow-stuff-up gene is located on the Y chromosome.”

  Giada snickered as he started to reach into the box.

  The vision rolled over her in a silent detonation of blood and terror. His hand closed over the mortar, started to lift it. Mercury rolled inside a tiny tube, triggering an explosion that bloomed in vicious slow motion. The fi reball ripped into his hand and seared the skin off his face, shattering his skull, sending his body tumbling across the attic to lie smoking. Right hand blasted away, head and torso a burned and bloody ruin. Dead.

  Oh, God, Giada thought in sick horror. Not a sniper. A bomber. He booby-trapped the mortar. “Logan!”

  He jerked and looked up at her, alarmed at her tone. “What?” Frowning, he studied her face. To her relief, his hand stopped short of the mortar in favor of steadying her elbow. “You okay? You look pale.”

  She opened her mouth and promptly closed it again. What the hell was she going to tell him? I had a vision?

  He’d know I’m a witch. And then he’d throw me right out of the house.

  His mother had been adamant. “You can’t let Logan know what you are. He’ll insist he can take care of himself, and he won’t have a prayer.”

  On the other hand, she certainly couldn’t let him trigger the booby trap. Her only option was to disarm the bomb with a spell before he could touch it.

  Giada shot a desperate look at the attic window. Judging by the reddening light, the sun was setting, but was definitely still up. Since she wasn’t the strongest witch around, she had to struggle to work a spell on mortal Earth during the day. Could she even disarm the thing this early? “Don’t you think we should X-ray it first? Or something?” Yeah. Go downstairs after the portable X-ray machine in the truck. Leave me alone with this thing long enough to think of something.

  Logan gave her an Are you nuts? look. “We already know it’s explosive. It’s a mortar, Giada. And mortars are built to be handled by eighteen-year-old boys with people shooting at them. It’ll be fine.” He started to reach for it again.

  So Giada, sweat breaking out on her forehead, shot out a hand and closed her fingers around the deadly tube.

  How much movement would it take to set off the booby trap? Giada had no idea, but she sure didn’t want to be the booby it trapped.

  “Giada . . .” Suspicion darkened his voice.

  “Give me a minute!” Work fast, girl. Closing her eyes, she opened her senses to probe the bomb. The assassin had removed the propellant in the shaft of the mortar, replacing it with a cell phone trigger, battery, and mercury switch, all wired to the explosive in the mortar’s cone. She saw instantly that if the angle of the mortar changed more than fifteen degrees, the mercury would flow forward in its tiny tube and complete the circuit, setting off the explosion.

  Standing as close as they were, the blast would kill both of them deader than Elvis.

  There were a number of magical ways to disable the bomb, but she didn’t have the time or power for anything fancy. So go for simple. Giada reached deep inside herself, seeking that core connection to the alternate universe that was the Mageverse, drawing on the forces there, then sending that alien magical energy down her arm to reshape reality.

  But sweet God, it was hard
, the magic a feeble trickle instead of the fire-hose stream she was used to. Giada gritted her teeth, sweat breaking out on her forehead, desperation clawing at her mind as she forced the energy to obey.

  More. More, dammit . . .

  And . . . done. Her shoulders sagged in a combination of relief and exhaustion, and she dared open her eyes.

  “Giada, what the hell are you doing?” Logan studied her, dark gaze cool and narrow with suspicion.

  Oh, heck. She gave him a deliberately cocky grin, picked the mortar up, and handed it to him. “Sometimes you’ve just got to face your fear.”

  He blinked, the suspicion fading. “Yeah, but next time, don’t do that. If we’d been dealing with a different kind of bomb, you’d have blown your head off.”

  Giada closed her palm around the tiny glass tube of the mercury switch she’d magically transported out of the bomb. She was going to have to find a safe way to dispose of it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Was Giada Shepherd a Maja?

  The handles of the posthole digger he’d gotten out of the bomb truck felt cool and smooth in Logan’s hands as he drove it into the rich, red clay. Luckily, it had just rained, and the dirt gave easily as he dug. He’d picked a spot well out in the field, two hundred feet away from the white farmhouse, to ensure no windows would be broken by the blast.

  As he worked, he was entirely too aware of his pretty partner, who was busy reeling out the wire for the electronic detonation.

  What had she been up to in that long pause when she’d first laid hands on the mortar? That expression of intense concentration on her face—if she’d been a Maja, he’d have thought she was casting a spell.

  Or maybe she really had been wrestling with a perfectly natural fear of things that blew up.

  Logan glanced up at her as she picked her way through the lush meadow with the long-legged grace of a thorough-bred. White wildflowers bobbed around her as she worked with the yellow reel, obviously paying great attention to making sure the wire didn’t kink or break. The setting sun gilded her upswept blond hair and cast highlights over the silky blue shirt that draped her full breasts. Her face had a sort of delicate strength, with wide, high cheekbones, an elegant nose that just missed being too long, and a square, jutting little chin. Her eyes were wide and serious, as gray as storm clouds, with a thick fringe of honey blond lashes.

  But it was those full lips that teased his erotic imagination. God, he could think of all kinds of things he’d love to do to that mouth. And have it do to him in return.

  He had never seen her at court. He’d have remembered that striking face if he had.

  Yet she definitely had that same maddening whatever-it-was that made his body sit up and notice Majae. He knew from personal experience that it was damned hard for a Latent to resist a witch. Especially one bent on seduction.

  Take Clea, for instance—which he almost had. If he hadn’t realized she was a Maja before she’d gotten his clothes off, he’d probably have fangs by now. And he just wasn’t ready for that yet.

  Thing was, Giada didn’t seem to be playing the same kind of game. When he’d given her The Look when they’d met yesterday—only as a test, mind you—she’d blushed brighter than a cherry tomato as her gaze skittered away in panic. If she hadn’t been twenty-five, he’d have sworn she was a virgin.

  Which didn’t sound like somebody Morgana Le Fay would send to relieve him of his mortality. Clea was much more Morgana’s style—all legs and tits and carnivorous sexuality. He’d seen her coming a mile off, even though he’d been seriously tempted.

  Dad, now . . . Dad knew him well enough to know exactly what bait would have him jumping. Dad would send a Maja who blushed.

  But he’d also sworn to let Logan decide when and where to become a Magus, and he would never break a vow. Dad treated oaths like his heart’s blood—never lightly given.

  Of course, that left Mom, who didn’t break oaths either, but was a hell of a lot more ruthless if she thought something was for Logan’s own good.

  Trouble was, he couldn’t imagine what would inspire his mother to that kind of ruthlessness.

  Terrence ground his teeth, focusing his binoculars on MacRoy as the chemist worked on disposing of the mortar.

  The mortar that had fucking failed to go off.

  Maybe there’d been something wrong with the mercury switch. He’d tested it three times before he’d installed it in the bomb, and it had passed all three times. Still, something must have gone wrong.

  Thing is, he’d anticipated that possibility and included a fail-safe—the cell phone detonator. He’d called it as he’d watched Logan carry the mortar from the house.

  No boom.

  Hell, the cell hadn’t even beeped. It was as if something had fried the damn thing.

  Furious all over again, Terrence lifted the rifle and drew a bead on MacRoy’s dark head. His finger started to tighten on the trigger . . .

  No. No, dammit. The little fucker wasn’t going to beat him into using the easy way. He was just going to have to come up with something more creative.

  One way or another, he was going to blow Logan MacRoy right to hell.

  Teeth grinding, he lowered the rifle—just as the wristband the client had given him heated up again. He hissed in discomfort at the vicious burn.

  What the fuck was that about, anyway? The client had said it would prevent him from being detected, but by what? By whom? MacRoy didn’t seem to have a fucking clue he was being hunted.

  And he wouldn’t. Not even when he died.

  Standing at what Logan had said was a safe distance, Giada scanned the woods as he rigged the bursting charge he’d use to blow up the mortar.

  She had the distinct feeling they’d just dodged a bullet.

  They’d been about to walk outside with the mortar when it hit her that the cell phone was wired to the explosive cone just as the mercury switch had been. She’d barely managed to zap the cell before Logan stepped outside.

  What the heck am I dealing with here? This bomber was obviously no amateur, but he wasn’t using magic either. Yet if he was nothing more than a mortal, a spell should have detected him. But every time she tried to do a scan, it was as if something blocked her.

  I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

  The mortar detonated with a thunderous boom and a soaring plume of smoke.

  Giada, Logan, Josh, and his mother watched the show from a safe distance at the edge of the field. “Wow!” The little boy’s blue eyes looked huge as he clapped both hands over his ears. “Wow!”

  “Yeah,” Giada echoed grimly. “Wow.” If she hadn’t been able to disarm that thing . . .

  “All right, Josh, show’s over.” Karen Harper dropped a firm hand on her son’s shoulder and turned him firmly around. “Time to go home and fix dinner.”

  “But Mooooommm . . .”

  “Dinner sounds good.” Logan gave Giada that easy smile of his as the two moved away, Josh still wheedling fruitlessly. “I know this great Mexican restaurant up the street.”

  What the heck—I deserve a celebration. “Sure.” Giada gave those dark eyes a reckless smile. “Why not?”

  TWO

  Chico’s was dimly lit, with sombreros and black velvet paintings of matadors hanging on the walls. It also served the best Mexican in three counties, which was why it was always packed.

  The Latino waiter guided Giada and Logan to a dimly lit corner and took their drink orders as they contemplated the menu’s selection of gastric WMDs.

  Giada’s margarita turned out to be electric blue and served in a salt-encrusted glass roughly the size of a goldfish bowl. Her eyes began to glaze before she’d finished half of it.

  Logan resolved to drive her home. And wondered whether he’d end up pouring her into bed while he was at it. His cock twitched in silent approval of that idea. Stop that, he told it. No seducing the coworker. Especially when she’s drunk.

  Which didn’t mean he couldn’t seize the opportu
nity to pump her ruthlessly for information. Maybe he’d be able to figure out if she was a Maja. Okay, not exactly fair—but if she was lying to him, she didn’t deserve fair.

  “So your file says you’ve got a PhD in organic chemistry.” Plucking a tortilla chip from the basket between them, Logan dunked it into the accompanying bowl of salsa, then popped it in his mouth. He paused a moment to let his abused taste buds adjust to the salsa’s nuclear bite. “Quite an accomplishment for a twenty-five-year-old.” Since it took about six years to work your way through the master’s and doctorate programs, most people were at least twenty-seven before they attained a doctorate.

  “Actually, I was twenty-three when I got my Piled Higher and Deeper.” Giada dunked a chip in the salsa, bit into it, then hissed and gulped margarita. “Early bloomer,” she managed, when she quit gasping. “I started high school when I was eleven.”

  “That is early.” He dipped, munched, and downed a cooling swallow of his Coke. “Was it rough, going to high school that young?”

  “Sucked. Everybody else was at least six inches taller. And to make matters worse, I was a fat little kid.” She crunched, sipped, and shuddered before taking another bite. He wasn’t sure whether she was brave or masochistic. “And I’m a freaking genius, which didn’t help.” Blinking slowly, Giada added in a tone of realization, “Shouldn’t have said that last part.” She appeared to worry about it for a moment before shrugging. “Anyway, IQ is just a number. Doesn’t mean a darn thing.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Nope.” She shook her head. “ ’Cause being smart doesn’t keep you from being stupid. They had me tutor this guy once. Captain of the football team, quarterback. You remind me of him some. Gorgeous. Shoulders to die for. Face like . . . well, something gorgeous.”

  Oh, she was drunk.