White Hot: A Hidden Legacy Novel
White Hot: Chapter 13

I opened my eyes to the blinking lights and loud beeping of my alarm. I slapped it down and swiped my phone off the night table. Three text messages: Rogan, Diana Harrison, and the third from an unknown number. I clicked Rogan’s first.

House Howling disavowed David. Lenora will see us this morning at eight. You and I are going alone. Cornelius’ dispensation specified that he must stay behind to protect Matilda.

So Cornelius got his blessing after all, but not exactly in the way he wanted. I clicked his sister’s text message. My brother rarely draws attention to himself. Don’t underestimate Cornelius. He’s a dangerous mage and he loves his wife enough, still, to sacrifice every animal he bonded with in her name. I hold you personally accountable for the safety of my niece.

Great. She’d known me for a whole five minutes and she already held me accountable.

I clicked the last text message. A picture of David Howling, smiling, holding a drink with his left hand and shooting with the index finger of his right. I’ve played this game before. I typed back, Cute.

Come on, text me back.

Nothing. Probably used a burner phone.

You’d think there would be some savagery in David’s eyes. Some indication that he was a cold, calculating killer, but no. They were warm and calm, their color a very pale hazel. His face was relaxed, his smile genuine. What makes you tick, David?

The message was sent to me, but it was really for Rogan. I forwarded it to him.

The response was instant. Cute.

Ha! Evil minds think alike.

Someone knocked. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Catalina said through the door.

“Come in.”

My sister stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind her. Her face was pale, her lips pinched together. “What happened?”

She sat on my bed and offered me a tablet.

“Is that Matilda’s?”

She nodded. “Matilda has an email address. Her mother would send her cute cat pictures from her work. She knows how to check her email and this showed up this morning.”

I glanced at the tablet. A video clip. Okay. I tapped it.

David Howling’s smiling mug filled the screen. “Hello, Matilda.”

Oh, you sonovabitch.

“I heard your mommy had to go away.”

Fury punched me.

“Do you miss your mommy? I’m so sorry that she went away. It’s not right when mommies just go away like that. But don’t be sad. You will see her very soon. I’ll make sure of it.”

He pointed his index finger at the screen, winked, and pretended to shoot. The video stopped.

The world had gone red and for a second I couldn’t even see.

“She is four years old.” Catalina’s lips trembled with barely contained rage.

“Has Cornelius seen this?”

“No.”

“Talk to Bern and tell him to scrub that email out of Matilda’s email box and off the server. This was designed to make all of us lose it and do something rash.”

Cornelius was already not in a good place. This email could push him over the edge.

Catalina grabbed the tablet. “You kill him, Nevada. Kill him, or I will. He isn’t touching one hair on Matilda’s head.”

“I will,” I promised her.

Thirty minutes later, showered, dressed, and suitably armed, I climbed into the passenger seat of Rogan’s Range Rover. Melosa nodded at me from the back seat. Normally I’d hide my gun in a canvas bag or a purse. Today I didn’t bother. My Baby Desert Eagle rested in a hip holster. Its magazine held twelve rounds, .40 S&W, and I’d brought two spare magazines, in the interior pocket within the lining of my jacket.

We drove downtown in silence, Houston sliding past our windows under an overcast sky. Lenora Jordan’s new HQ was a far cry from the marble elegance of the old Justice Center. Rogan had leveled it while trying to save Houston. The new Justice Center had been raised by one of the larger Houses as a business high-rise and bought by the city of Houston three days before it was set to open.

The new Justice Center was built with polished sunset-red granite, its facade a complex pattern of rectangles and triangles of insulated tinted glass. When the sun caught it just right, the entire building glowed, its tint changing with the time of day and color of the sky. Sometimes it was fiery orange, sometimes almost purple, and sometimes red. It stabbed at the clouds, a sharply cornered, massive obelisk taking up the entire block between Travis and Capitol streets. A meaner, leaner, harder tower, a monument to Houston’s resolve, daring any enemies to take a shot at it. People called it the Spire. The name fit.

As Rogan slid the Range Rover into a parking space two blocks away, the Spire loomed above the city, and the overcast sky turned it a reddish purple, the color of a fresh bruise. A bad feeling came over me. I wished we could have brought more backup. Unfortunately, this part of the downtown was a no-escort zone by mutual agreement between the Houses. We’d brought Melosa, who could be viewed as our driver, but that was it.

Theoretically the restriction made the downtown safe. Practically, we had been attacked only a few blocks from the old Justice Center and the no-escort policy didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.

“Good luck,” Melosa said.

Yeah. I hoped we wouldn’t need it.

We walked to the building without incident, I surrendered my firearm to security, then we crossed the Spire’s cavernous lobby—polished white marble floor and red granite columns rising to a dizzying height. We selected the right elevator and let it carry us to the twenty-third floor without incident. Lenora Jordan’s gatekeeper, a Native American woman about forty or so, gave us a long once-over and nodded toward the door. We stepped into her office and I almost did a double take.

Nothing had changed. Same massive bookcases, same leather visitor chairs, same deep red curtains. Even the massive desk of reclaimed wood looked the same. It wasn’t just like her old office. This was an exact duplicate of it, as if the collapse had never happened.

Lenora Jordan sat in her chair, typing on her computer. The first time I’d met her, I couldn’t remember how to breathe. Lenora was the hero of my adolescence. Incorruptible, powerful, confident, she bound criminals in magic chains and dragged them to justice. As Rogan once said, Law and Order were her gods and she prayed to them sincerely and often.

Maybe it was because this was the third time we’d spoken, or maybe too much had happened, but I couldn’t muster any hero worship. Instead I noted faint lines around her mouth and a touch of puffiness around her eyes. Her curly black hair was still perfect and the makeup enhancing her deep brown skin was still flawless, but fatigue smudged the perfection. The Harris County DA was working overtime.

“Yes?” she asked without raising her head.

Rogan took out his phone, flicked his finger across the screen to start the recording of Senator Garza’s death, and held it between Lenora’s eyes and her computer screen. She snapped the phone out of his hand. Recorded moments ticked away. Lenora’s gaze sharpened. She focused on the video like a bird of prey, a powerful eagle ready to strike.

The video ended.

“Do you want to be made aware of this?” Rogan said.

Lenora raised her head. Fury drowned her eyes. All of the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Oh wow.

“I’m aware of it now,” she snapped.

Rogan placed a USB drive on her desk. Lenora took it and placed it into her desk drawer.

“How did you get this video?”

“Before his death, Gabriel Baranovsky indicated to Ms. Baylor that Elena de Trevino, an employee of House Forsberg, shared this recording with him. He and Elena were lovers. He intended to make the video public and shared it with Ms. Baylor.”

Looking at Rogan, I could’ve never guessed he’d just lied.

“That’s a nice lie.” Lenora pinned me with her stare. “What really happened?”

“Baranovsky admitted to having the video but he was assassinated before we could get to it,” I said. “So we used a covert team of ferrets to break into the house and retrieve it from his computer.”

Lenora stared at me. I felt two inches tall.

“Ferrets?”

“Yes.”

“To be accurate, two ferrets and one ferret-badger,” Rogan said.

She closed her eyes and slowly opened them. I wondered if she was counting in her head, trying to calm down.

Rogan opened the black zip-up folder he was carrying and put a piece of paper in front of Lenora. “This is a copy of the police report indicating that four attorneys of House Forsberg were killed in Hotel Sha Sha on December 13. Among them were Elena de Trevino and Nari Harrison, wife of Cornelius Harrison, the third scion of House Harrison.”

Another piece of paper.

“This is a mutual cooperation agreement between House Rogan and House Harrison in an effort to discover the identity of the parties responsible for the death of Nari Harrison.”

The papers just kept coming.

“This is a copy of a police report indicating evidence of psychrokinetic activity at the scene of Nari Harrison’s and Elena de Trevino’s murders.

“This is a sworn statement from me, Connor Rogan, head of House Rogan, describing the evidence in my possession that indicates an egocissor and a psychrokinetic combined efforts to bring about said murders. This is a sworn statement from Abraham Levin, my employee and chief of surveillance, in support of my assessment.”

I had no idea Bug’s real name was Abraham Levin.

“This is an incident report and sworn statements from Troy Linman, an employee of my House, and Nevada Baylor, a contractor hired by House Harrison to pursue an inquiry into the death of Nari Harrison. These statements describe an unprovoked attack by the third scion of House Howling, David Howling, with the purpose of killing Mr. Linman and Ms. Baylor.

“This is a declaration of feud and a petition for Verona Exception from House Rogan and House Harrison with intent to bring David Howling, and all parties found to be acting in concert with him, to justice.”

I made a mental note to never try to fight Rogan with paperwork.

Lenora Jordan flipped through the stack of papers. “Do you know the identity of the manipulator working with David Howling?”

“We have a suspect,” Rogan said.

Lenora thought about it. Rogan had drawn a clear line: a manipulator was involved in the death of Senator Garza; Elena de Trevino had been in possession of surveillance footage of said murder, which she shared with Baranovsky; Elena and Nari Harrison were murdered by a manipulator and an ice mage; when we tried to investigate the murder, an ice mage tried to kill us, and that ice mage was David Howling. To get to the manipulator, we had to get David Howling. I wasn’t a lawyer, but even I could see that while we had enough to declare a feud, Lenora didn’t have enough to go to court. The video of Garza’s death was stolen and confirming its authenticity would mean arm wrestling with House Forsberg. Even if the video was authenticated and presented to the court, it offered no evidence of ice mage activity. For all intents and purposes, the death of Garza and David Howling’s attack on us could be completely unrelated incidents.

Lenora pulled the petition to her and signed it. “Petition for Verona Exception granted. The principals will provide full disclosure and will make every reasonable effort to detain the accused parties so they can be questioned by law enforcement. Don’t screw this up, Rogan.”

We left the massive lobby and exited onto Milam Street. While we’d spoken to Lenora Jordan, the clouds had torn, and now narrow rays of sunshine stabbed through the grey. Tall buildings turned the street into a canyon with a current of cars at the bottom. We turned left, walked to the end of the block, and made a right onto Rusk Street, moving against the flow of traffic. In this part of Houston, streets ran one way, crossing at 90 degree angles. Rusk channeled traffic southeast, Miriam ran perpendicular to it to the southwest, and I didn’t see anything suspicious in either direction. So far so good.

Ahead, on to the corner of Louisiana and Rusk, Melosa leaned against the Range Rover, her arms crossed, her face grim. Leon stood next to her, with an I-didn’t-do-anything-and-I-don’t-know-why-this-is-happening expression on his face. How . . .

“I’m going to kill him,” I squeezed through clenched teeth.

“Does he drive?” Rogan asked.

I accelerated. “No, he doesn’t drive. Do you think we’d let him have a car? He must’ve snuck into your car.”

“There was no time,” Rogan said.

“He’s talented.” And once I reached him, I’d pull his legs out.

Rogan gripped my shoulder and jerked me back. A carmine bolt of lightning exploded on the pavement in front of me. The air popped, punching my eardrums with an invisible fist. An enerkinetic.

I pulled my gun.

Another crimson burst rocketed toward us from above. A metal subway sign tore from the building and shot up to intercept it. The lightning splashed against it, spattering like glowing blood, fizzling. Ahead the street lamp turned as if cut at the base and flew straight up, snapping the tethers of electric cables.

Behind us brakes screeched. I spun around, my back against Rogan’s.

Creatures galloped toward us down Rusk, dodging the individual cars. Four feet tall and corded with steel muscle, they moved like giant cats, sprinting to kill their prey.

“Incoming!” I yelled.

“Melosa, get him out of here!” Rogan barked, his voice carrying clear across the street.

I chanced a glance back. Melosa grabbed Leon. The blue bubble of the aegis shield snapped into existence around her and she dragged him away, running down Louisiana Street.

Above us the red energy pounded against the subway shield, tearing it to pieces. The lamp post shot up and turned horizontal, sweeping the roof of the short two-story building.

The first beast leaped up onto a taxi and skidded over the cab. From the throat down it resembled a lean lioness sheathed in spiky purple-blue fur, splattered with black rosettes, each marked with a spot of red in the center. Thin furry tentacles thrust from its shoulders. The tentacles whipped and moved, flexing independently of each other, sampling the air like whiskers. Four small red eyes studded its head, each in a ring of black. It had no ears and no visible nose, only a lipless mouth filled with fangs.

The beast posed for a moment on top of the taxi, unsure where to take its next leap. Its mouth hung open, too wide, unhinging like it was the maw of a snake. The thin membrane of its cheeks glowed with red.

I sighted and fired.

The first two bullets ripped into the beast’s face. Pink mist flew from its skull. It leaped forward and charged me.

I exhaled and fired again, in a tight burst. Three, four.

The red clusters of enerkinetic magic rained on the pavement around us like crimson hail, exploding with an electric hiss.

The fourth bullet punched a hole between the creature’s eyes. Its momentum carried it forward another few feet, then it collapsed, head into the ground.

The second beast shot out from between the cars. I fired in twin bursts.

Five, six.

It kept coming. I had thirty bullets left. I had to be precise.

My heart still pounded, my blood still thudded through the veins in my head, but I left it behind, aware but separate from it, almost as if it was happening to someone else. The target was all that mattered.

Seven, eight. Nine, ten.

The beast skidded to a halt and collapsed.

The red lightning splashed near me. Two creatures jumped into the open—one on the car, the other next to it on the ground. I fired twice, emptying the magazine into the creature on the right. It howled, an eerie high-pitched whine that didn’t come from any animal originating on Earth, and charged.

I ejected the magazine, slapped the new one in, all in one fluid motion, then raised my gun and squeezed the trigger. The bullets punched into the beast’s skull, one after the other, hitting the precise spot between its eyes. One, two, three, four . . .

It kept coming.

Five, six . . .

The light faded in its eyes. It was still running, but it was already dead. I swung to its sidekick. It was huge, a full four inches taller than the rest. I sighted and fired. The gun spat thunder. Bullets punched the beast’s face. It didn’t even slow down.

A man screamed and plummeted to the pavement from above, landing in the beast’s path. Rogan had found the enerkinetic.

The beast dodged and sprinted forward. Ten yards.

The two final shots rang out. I’d emptied my Desert Eagle.

Eight yards. It would tear me to pieces.

I ejected my magazine.

Six yards.

I slapped the new magazine into the gun. My last one.

Five. The beast leaped, its fangs bared, the fingers of its massive paws spread, the red claws ready to rend and tear.

The lamppost slammed into the creature from the side, impaling it and driving it into the glass front of the dark building to my left. Glass shattered.

“You’re allowed to ask for help,” Rogan said.

A wave of magic washed over me, a disturbing echo of a huge magical reserve expended all at once. Not good.

Down Rusk, the few cars that had failed to flee slid aside, as if pushed by some massive force. A round dent appeared in the pavement, as big as a manhole cover. Another. A third. Something massive and invisible was walking toward us.

Rogan moved his hand. A chunk of building broke off from the right and sliced through the empty space where the creature would be. It passed through empty air without any resistance and streaked back and forth, up and low, as Rogan tried to smash the invisible giant. How the hell do you fight something that has no body? It could hurt us, but we couldn’t hurt it.

Thud! A pothole.

Thud! Another.

Thud!

The next would land on a blue SUV. A woman cringed inside. Rogan jerked the vehicle out of the way and the invisible foot thundered into the asphalt instead.

I could try to shoot it, but there was no telling where the bullets would land if there was nothing to stop them. We were smack in downtown, with thousands of people around us.

A mere half a block separated us from the transparent giant.

Rogan smashed the chunk of the building into the spot where the giant’s next step would land. The invisible force punched straight through it. A car raced down Miriam Street and fishtailed, trying to avoid the potholes. Rogan waved his hand and the vehicle swerved left, out of the invisible apparition’s way.

“Too many civilians,” he growled. “We can’t do this here.”

I backed away. “It doesn’t want civilians. It wants us.”

We needed open space. What was even around here? Tranquility Park was two blocks away, but it was bordered by a stone wall, with only a few open entrances. However, next to it was Hermann Square, a spot of flat, wide-open ground in the canyon streets of downtown. “Hermann Square.”

Rogan turned. “Come on.”

We turned and sprinted for the Range Rover.

The steps accelerated behind us, pounding the pavement in an urgent staccato. Thud, thud, thud.

I had to run faster, damn it. Faster!

The air burned my lungs. We dashed into the parking lot, and I spun around. Whatever chased us was still invisible, but the building to the left, a wall of black glass, reflected the street. A fractured image flickered in the multitude of glass panes as the invisible giant pounded its way toward us.

I squinted, unable to look away. It was enormous and pallid, shambling forward on two massive legs, dripping rolls of fatty tissue. The legs supported an oblong wrinkled body, hairless, with stubs of forelimbs. It had no neck. Its body just bent forward like a question mark, and at the end of that question mark, a round black mouth gaped, filled with rows and rows of triangular clawlike teeth, like some nightmarish intestinal parasite thirty feet tall.

Oh my God.

“Nevada! Get into the car!”

I jumped into the passenger seat, snapping the seat belt closed. “Go! Go now!”

Rogan tore out of the parking lot. Going down Rusk would bring us toward the monster, not away from it. There was only one direction to go—northeast on Louisiana.

I looked behind us.

“Is it following?”

A section of the building twenty feet up shattered, showering the pavement with black glass. Thud! A dent in the pavement.

“It’s following. Do you have a plan?”

He made a left onto Capitol. Here the traffic still flowed, oblivious to what was happening a block away. Rogan glanced at the building on our right. A row of windows on the third floor exploded. The traffic did its best to scatter.

“It would help if I knew what it was,” he said.

“It looks like a giant maggot.”

“Can you see it?”

“I can see its reflection.”

The creature thudded its way onto Capitol. Where were the cops? There was an army of cops downtown. The Spire and city hall were blocks away.

“Use your phone,” Rogan said, his voice clipped.

I swung back and snapped a shot with my phone. The awful giant tapeworm appeared on the small screen in all its revolting glory. I thrust the phone at Rogan.

“Crom Cruach. It’s a Prime-level summon, and someone is cloaking it.”

“But why couldn’t you hit it?”

“Because it doesn’t have a material body in our world. They didn’t summon the actual creature, only its magical footprint. It’s still within its own arcane realm. What we’re seeing is a magical echo.”

“If it doesn’t have a body, then how is it damaging the street?”

“It’s made of arcane magic. When the magic comes into contact with our reality, it creates damage.”

Rogan expertly cut off another car.

“So can it hurt us?”

“Oh yes.”

“How do we kill it?”

He flashed a grin, sharp and fast, like a sword coming out of a scabbard. “We kill it with water. It’s in our world because a summoner is keeping it here through a magical bond. Water disrupts the bond. If we drench it in water, it will manifest in the flesh or disappear.”

Hermann Square Park had a huge rectangular fountain.

Rogan made a sharp left onto Smith. The entire left side of the street was blocked by construction barriers as the workers bore into the pavement in front of the Department of Public Works. We barely had two lanes to work with, but they were clear. Rogan stepped on the gas. The Range Rover roared, accelerating, the stone wall of Tranquility Park sliding past us.

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 replace 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 certainly 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 . . .

“Do it!” David dared. “I’ll kill her.”

Rogan’s spine curved; his massive shoulders hunched forward in a classic rowing pose. His back shook with strain. He locked his teeth and pulled, straightening. The lines of the circles spun in different directions. The smaller circle containing David slid across the floor toward me, taking the ice mage with it. I forgot to breathe. It was like the main circle had become a bobbin and David a dangling thread. The bobbin turned, winding the thread, and bringing David closer.

“I’ll squeeze the life out of her with my bare hands,” David snarled.

Blood dripped from Rogan’s nose. He pulled again. David slid closer.

I had shockers, but he was a Prime. He was stronger, faster; he had training, and I was half dead. But I was angry. I was so angry.

“You’ll get to watch her die. The last thing you’ll see before all that magic you spent puts you under will be my hands on her throat.”

He was doing to Rogan exactly what he’d tried to do to Cornelius. No. You don’t.

“I’ll break her. You’ll hear her bones snapping.”

My teeth clicked from the cold. “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

David’s eyes gleamed. “Ready to die?”

“Matilda got your email,” I told him. “You sent a death threat to a little girl. You’re a piece of shit. Look at me. Look at my eyes. Do I look scared?”

David blinked.

“You’re a wart,” I told him. “You need to be removed. I’ll do it and three months from now nobody will remember your name.”

It was so cold it hurt to breathe. The world wavered. Don’t black out. Not now. Rogan was almost out of magic. If he didn’t black out, I wouldn’t either.

If I failed, I died. Rogan died. Howling would kill Cornelius and little Matilda just to cover his tracks. He would kill a child and keep on going with his life like it didn’t matter.

Rogan cried out, his voice pure agony. The spell spun one last time. David hurtled toward me. His circle came apart, absorbed by the larger arcane design, and suddenly we were in the same space, about eight feet across. He charged toward me, his fist thrusting like a hammer. I tried to dodge, but his knuckles smashed into my chest. Something crunched. A sharp burst of pain tore through my insides. I forced myself through it and lunged at him, throwing all of my weight at him, aiming for his neck. He must’ve expected me to go down, because he barely managed to dodge. My hand locked on his forearm. Agony swelled in my shoulder and rolled down my arm to my fingertips.

David Howling screamed.

He flailed in my hands, spit flying from his mouth as my magic pulsed from my fingers into his body, a whip of pain shocking him like a live wire. He screamed again and punched me, hammering his fist into my shoulder, my head, my side, wherever he could land it in a desperate rush to knock me off him. I hunched my shoulders, trying to hide from the barrage, and hung on. Blood filled my mouth. His hand slapped my face, his thumb trying to gouge my right eye. I jerked away, my fingers still locked on his wrist. Only one of us was getting out alive. I wouldn’t let him kill me. I wouldn’t let him murder anyone else.

Glowing worms swam before my eyes. I had to let go or the shockers would kill me.

I unlocked my fingers. He stumbled back, foam dripping from his mouth, his eyes insane, and I raised my foot, leaned back, and kicked his kneecap. He howled, spun away from me, and dropped down to one knee. I had seconds before he shook it off and strangled me. I jumped on top of him, grabbed his head, and pushed it straight down on his neck. His vertebrae locked and I twisted.

Nari’s terrified face flashed before me. I’ve got it. I won’t let him hurt your daughter.

Bones crunched with a dry pop. I let go and David fell facedown, his head jutting at an odd angle.

A strange sound echoed through the cistern and I realized it was Rogan laughing.

Around me the power of the circle melted, the lines once again mere chalk, and I saw him on his back on the floor.

My feet didn’t want to move. I staggered over and dropped by him. His eyes were open. His chest barely rose.

“Connor?” I turned his face toward me. “Connor, talk to me!”

“A wart, huh?” His voice was weak. “Good speech.”

“I read it in some fanfiction on Herald.” I was so tired. I just wanted to sit here for a little bit. But sitting meant death. “Come on, we’ve got to get you up. We have to get out of here.”

“You go,” he said. “Get help. I’m good here for a bit.”

Lie.

I glanced up. David was dead, but his magic had done its damage. The floor was white with frost. We were already past the point of being cold. We had to get out of here or we’d die.

“No, you’re not. The cistern will take hours to warm up.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Lie.

“Go get help. The faster you get someone here, the better my chances. I’ll be fine.”

Lie.

“You’re at your limit,” I said. “You will freeze to death before I can get back.”

“No.”

Lie.

“Stop lying to me!”

He raised his hand and stroked my cheek with his fingers.

“Listen to me.”

“We have to get out of here!”

He focused on my face and for a moment the old Rogan with steel-hard eyes resurfaced and melted back into Connor. “That nightmare you had with the cave and the rat, it wasn’t yours. It was mine. I don’t know why or how, but you attuned yourself to me. You’re sensitive to my projections. You pick them up even when I don’t concentrate on sending them to you.”

I tried to pull him upright, but my arms were so weak.

“I project when I’m under stress. The moment I pass out, my mind will react and try to purge all this shit from my head so I can rest. I’ll project while unconscious and you’re exhausted. You have no defenses. If you’re still here, you won’t be yourself. You’ll be me. You won’t know where you are or what you’re doing. I need you to go now, Nevada.”

“No.”

He was looking at me like I was the only thing that had ever mattered. “If you don’t survive, none of this is worth it to me. I love you.”

“No.”

“Yes. This was never about both of us getting out. Leave. Now.”

“Don’t you pull this hero bullshit with me. Get up. You’re Mad Rogan. Get up.”

“God damn it,” he snarled. “Get the hell away from me.”

“Get up or I’m dying here with you. I’ll lie down right here on the floor.”

“Get out of here!” He tried to sit up. His eyes rolled back in his head. I grabbed him before he hit the floor. He was heavy. So heavy. He slumped over me, limp.

Tears wet my cheeks. “Connor, please. Please. I can’t carry you. Please wake up. I love you. Don’t leave me.”

His skin was cold. He stopped breathing. Oh God. Panic slapped me. I pushed him back and put my head on his chest and heard the beating of his heart, distant and weak, but steady. I pressed my cheek against his nose. A faint flutter of air escaping warmed my skin. Still alive. I straightened. He wasn’t waking up. Think. Think . . .

David didn’t teleport here, which meant he had to have clothes. I got up and stumbled about looking for clothes, a bag, anything.

The cistern tore in front of me, the concrete columns vanished, and jungle breathed into my face, bright violent green. I fought it with everything I had. This isn’t real. The hazy concrete columns swung into view. I forced myself to move. There! A duffel bag by one of the columns.

Something was coming for me. I could hear it moving through the vivid growth. Something with long needle teeth, with a bite that burned like ice and turned your skin blue and black with necrosis. It was close. I had to hide.

Bag. Stay with the bag. Bag. Bag. Bag.

I reached it and dropped on my knees. Clothes—T-shirt, underwear, jeans, windbreaker—car keys, a gun, phone. Yes! I swiped the screen. Password locked.

I was out in the open and the thing with needled teeth was staring at my back. Its gaze bore into me. I had to get out. I had to hide.

I tapped Emergency Call. No signal.

The thing was coming for me. Rogan was lying in the open, in the middle of a clearing. I had to get him out before it found him.

I grabbed the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and staggered to Rogan. I pulled out and tied the windbreaker over his hips. It would make him easier to drag.

The jungle wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. I hooked my arms under his armpits and heaved. My feet slid on the frost and I fell on my ass. Why was this happening? I just want out. Help me, somebody, I want out of this nightmare. I just want for this to end. I could shoot myself. Just finish it. I had a gun.

If I killed myself, who would walk them out of the jungle?

I clawed my way through the visions flooding my brain. At the right wall, thirty-five yards away, a door broke the uniform concrete. I had to get us to that door. I crawled back up and heaved his huge body to me. He moved an inch. I would take an inch. An inch was closer to the door than before.

I was warm. Dear God, I was warm. That meant I was dying.

There were stairs.

I couldn’t do stairs. He was too heavy.

Daniela would fix him. Daniela fixed everyone and everything, except a bullet to the head.

The mage hunters were coming. I could hear them breathing. I got my gun and waited.

Get to higher ground. Radio for pickup.

Jimenez was waiting upstairs with his knife. His face swam before me, hazy, his eyes two bottomless pools of darkness. “It’s not him. He would have broken by now. This is a career officer. Take him to the back and shoot him.”

I still had six rounds left.

Get to higher ground.

They were coming for me. Their voices floated down to me.

No. No, I didn’t come all this way for them to kill us now.

Something bit me. My body gave out. I crashed down. The mage hound’s maw loomed over me, all slimy serpentine tongue and thin sharp teeth, and swallowed me whole.