I sat in an armored carrier. Outside, Rogan’s ex-soldiers were loading the grinder’s cylinders onto the transport. It took twelve of them to safely lift and carry one. Rogan lingered with the Harcourts. Apparently, there were some papers to sign. We all had engaged in a massive slaughter, and now we had to formalize it. That part of House warfare never made sense to me. I’d never forget the moment when Rogan and Cornelius bargained over who would retain the right to kill Cornelius’ wife’s murderer and then drew up a contract spelling out their agreement.

Even inside the vehicle, the air smelled like gore. If I bent forward, I could see the remains of the bodies.

Rogan climbed into the carrier and sat next to me, leaning against the bulkhead, his helmet off, his eyes closed. For a while we sat next to each other.

“Did you get the papers?”

He nodded. “They signed a no-retaliation agreement. They legally acknowledge that they were at fault and promise to not pursue the matter further.”

“Is it going to stick?”

“Yes. If they break it, the sanctions from the Assembly will be severe.”

I nodded and looked away.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“Do you think they made these monsters up out of nothing, or is there an actual place, another world, they pulled them from?”

“Nobody knows.”

“So much death, Connor. For so little.”

He reached over and squeezed my hand.

“Is that how people will see me?” I asked. “An abomination.”

“That’s how they see your grandmother. About two decades ago Victoria Tremaine went on a rampage,” Rogan said. “It was before my time, but I asked my mother and she remembers it.”

I glanced at him.

“What?”

“Your mother? I thought you were estranged?”

He frowned. “No. I talk to her every week.”

“Why isn’t she . . . involved in all of this?”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t want to be. My mother survived more assassination attempts than several heads of state put together, played the House politics, and after my father died and I came back to take over, she decided that she was done. Can you blame her?”

I glanced at the bloody pile of animal body parts. “No.”

“As I said, my mother remembers your grandmother’s reign of terror. Victoria Tremaine cut a wide swath through the Houses. Primes would disappear and then turn up babbling like idiots, their minds fried. People would be snatched off the street, hauled before her, and interrogated. Those who survived called it mental rape. It took them a long time to recover. Some never did. My mother thinks Victoria must’ve made a deal with the feds, because they let her go on unchecked for far too long. Rumors said she was looking for something, but nobody who’d managed to escape her claws was in any shape to talk about it.”

“She was looking for my father.” The timing was about right.

“I think so.” Rogan stretched his shoulders. Something popped in his chest. He grimaced. “You’re not Victoria, Nevada.”

“But I am. Did you see how they looked at me?”

“Yes. They are afraid of you.”

“Terrified. They are terrified and disgusted.”

He grinned, a dragon baring his fangs. “Yes.”

He didn’t seem upset by that. I’d terrified the Harcourts. I was the terrible abomination, and they were willing to spill their darkest secrets just to keep me out of their minds.

Oh.

“Is it going to get around?”

“Possibly. Your name was on the Verona Exception packet.” He looked unbearably pleased with himself.

It would get around. By tonight, the movers and shakers of Houston would know that future House Baylor took their root from Victoria Tremaine. The number of Houses who were considering taking us down once our grace period was done just got cut by a good percentage.

“She will be livid. Now everyone will know that we’re rebelling against her.”

“Livid, yes. Also proud,” Rogan said. “You walked in and made a combat House with four Primes submit without lifting a finger. Your grandmother will quite enjoy that.”

He looked like he was enjoying it too.

I leaned closer to him. “What about you, Rogan? Are you afraid of sleeping with an abomination?”

He smiled, his blue eyes light, raised his hand, and brushed a loose strand of blond hair from my cheek. “When we were at the lodge, and you were dancing in the snow, I kept wondering why it wasn’t melting. You’re like spring, Nevada. My spring.”

Rivera stomped up the ramp into the carrier. “We’re good to go, sir.”

“Move out,” Rogan said.

“Yes, sir.”

Rivera stomped out and barked, “Move out! We’re done here.”

I pulled my phone out. Dead. I should’ve charged it this morning. There goes my intelligence gathering.

“What’s the deal with Alexander Sturm?” I asked, as the transport began to fill with people.

“He’s a Prime,” Rogan said.

You don’t say. “What sort of magic?”

“He’s a dual fulgur and aero Prime, highest certification in both.”

Holy crap. Alexander Sturm controlled both wind and lightning. “Nice name.”

“His great-grandfather legally changed his name when he established the House,” Rogan said.

The big vehicle rumbled into life. We were off.

“How powerful is he?”

Rogan’s face snapped into his Prime face, neutral and calm. “When I was two, my father met with some other Heads of the Houses to discuss the strategy they were going to push through the Assembly in response to the Bosnian conflict. They met in a concrete reinforced bunker, sunken twenty feet into the ground, because some of them were paranoid about surveillance.”

“Okay.”

“Gerald Sturm got upset that he wasn’t invited. He created an F4 tornado and held it in place for eighteen minutes. The tornado partially dug out the bunker, ripped off part of the wall and the roof, and hurled it over a hundred feet. Maxine Abner was sucked out through the gap. She was a hopper and she managed to pulse-jump away, but the fall broke both of her legs.”

“What happened then?”

“Eventually, Gerald ran out of steam. When the tornado died, there were nine pissed-off Primes. Gerald had to pay restitution and publicly apologize. But my father never forgot sitting in that bunker while the sky roared above. Neither did anyone else who was there. Alexander Sturm is more powerful than his father.” Darkness crept into Rogan’s eyes. “We’ll have to adjust our defenses.”

The carrier stopped. My mother boarded, followed by Leon. She was still calm, her face serene. Leon had a dreamy look on his face. The last time I saw it, he was seven and we took him to Disney World.

“How was it?” I asked.

My cousin smiled at me. “Glorious.”

Mom rolled her eyes.

Rogan’s phone rang. He answered it.

“Slow down, Rynda, I can’t understand you. . . . Okay. Put it on ice. We’re on the way.”

He hung up. His face was grim. “They sent her Brian’s ear.”

The ear came in a Ziploc bag in a plain yellow padded envelope. It was addressed to Rynda and me and dropped off in front of the security booth on Gessner Street. She left the ear in the bag. I did the same, except I slid the bag onto a piece of white paper to examine it.

The ear was Caucasian and had been severed in a single precise cut, the kind an experienced surgeon might make with a scalpel. The cut bothered me. Things weren’t adding up.

We were in Rogan’s HQ on the second floor. The moment we arrived, people ran up to the carrier with urgent looks on their faces and Rogan took off with them, which left me to deal with the ear.

Rynda had been waiting all this time in the tender care of Bug, who was looking slightly freaked out. At least they had the presence of mind to get a cooler and fill it with ice.

“It’s not going to get fixed, is it?” Rynda asked, her voice dull. “We’re not going to get through this okay.”

“You will,” I told her. “Did Brian have pierced ears, scars, tattoos, anything that would let us confirm it’s his ear?”

“Please don’t ask me if it looks like my husband’s ear,” Rynda said in a small voice.

“Are you registered with Scroll?”

She blinked, taken aback. “Yes?”

“Please request DNA analysis on the ear. Let’s confirm it belongs to Brian.”

“Why would they send me someone else’s ear?”

And that was the million-dollar question.

“I’d like to be thorough.”

She rose. “I’ll make the call. I’m going to go check on the kids now. They don’t know. Please don’t tell them.”

“I won’t.”

I watched her go down the stairs. She seemed so frail now. I half expected her legs to give out. That poor woman.

I puzzled over the ear some more.

Bug sidled up to me. “What’s the deal with the ear?”

“I’ll tell you but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”

“I can fill this room with things I keep to myself.”

“I mean it.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Sit down.”

He sat on the couch. I took a pen off the coffee table. “Let’s say you’re restrained, so hold your hands together.”

He clamped his hands into a single fist.

I showed him the pen. “Pretend this is a knife.” I grabbed his head with one hand and moved to “cut” his ear. He jerked away.

“See?”

“This doesn’t explain anything.”

I picked the bag up gently and showed him the ear. “One precise cut. No tears, no jagged edges, no nicks. He would have to be held completely immobile while this happened. Why immobilize someone’s head like that? You can just hack the ear off.”

“Maybe they sedated him.”

“Why? He’s a botanical mage. He isn’t dangerous. Why go through the trouble? I don’t know about Sturm, but Vincent for sure would want to torment him. He gets off on control and fear. Besides, sedation is dangerous. You never know when the person might have an adverse reaction to it and die.”

Bug pondered it.

“There is another thing,” I told him.

“What?”

“Look at the ear.”

He peered at it and gave it an intense once-over. “I don’t see it.”

“I don’t either.”

He squinted at me. “Will you just say it, Nevada, you’re driving me nuts.”

“When you nick your ear, it bleeds. A lot.”

“Yes. All head wounds bleed, so?”

“Where is the blood?”

He stared at the ear. “Huh. Did they wash it?”

“If you wanted to terrify a man’s wife into paying a ransom, would you send her a bloody mutilated chunk of flesh that was hacked off his head, or would you send her this perfectly clean, surgically removed ear?”

Bug blinked. “So what does it mean?”

It meant one of two things. Either Brian was dead or it wasn’t his ear.

“And?” Bug asked.

“And I’m going home to think about it. Did you find anything on Rynda’s computers?”

“No. Bern and I have been through them last night. He’s digging deeper today. There is nothing there. Pictures of the kids, a fungi database, Rynda’s holiday recipes . . .” Bug waved his arms. “So much domestic bliss, I could puke.”

“Tell me if you find something, please.”

“No, I was going to keep it all to myself, but now that you asked me, I guess I’ll clue you in.” Bug rolled his eyes.

“One day your face will get stuck like that,” I told him.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he asked.

“I’ve had a hard day. Don’t test me, Abraham.”

He opened his mouth and closed it with a click at the name. That’s right. I do know your real name.

“That’s playing dirty.”

“It is.”

“How did you know?”

“I’m a truthseeker, remember? I could fill this whole room with things I know and keep to myself.”

I tucked the cooler with the ear under my arm and headed down the stairs. It was finally time to go home.

In theory, successful kidnapping hinged on the victim being kept alive. In practice, things went wrong. Vincent, freshly pissed off from failing to intimidate Rynda, could’ve stormed into wherever they were keeping Brian and killed him in a fit of rage. Or they did try to sedate Brian, and he died. Or he could’ve made a break for it, and they accidentally killed him. The last possibility seemed remote. By all indications, Brian wasn’t the type to run or take a dangerous decisive action. He would likely comply with all of their demands, relying on other people to solve his problems, the way he relied on his older brother to handle the business issues and on his wife to shield him from domestic struggles. Brian led a charmed life. He wouldn’t jeopardize it. Not only that, but the people who grabbed him off the streets were professionals: they forced him to stop, nabbed him, and took off in seconds. They left no traces of themselves behind, and Bug still couldn’t find them. Professionals would have kept him alive.

If this was a punishment for our attack on House Harcourt, the ear would’ve been a lot bloodier.

If it wasn’t Brian’s ear in the cooler, we were in entirely new waters. Maybe cooler heads prevailed, and Alexander Sturm and Vincent Harcourt decided not to mutilate a Prime of another House. Vincent would do it for fun, but, really, how much of an accomplishment would it be to cut off Brian’s ear? We snatched this helpless mushroom mage off the street, beat him up, and chopped off his ear. We are total badasses, fear us. If they had gotten their hands on Rogan, that would be one thing. But doing it to Brian would only generate derision from other Houses.

If they really meant to terrify Rynda, they would’ve sent her Brian’s real ear.

That left only one possibility, and I really didn’t like it.

I punched the code into the door, stepped into the warehouse, closed the door, turned, and froze.

Zeus stood six inches from me. His massive head was level with my chest. Turquoise eyes regarded me with mild curiosity. He took up the entire width of the hallway. An enormous tiger-hound from another world with teeth the size of steak knives and a fringe of tentacles at his neck.

It occurred to me that I was covered in dried blood.

I held very still. I could jump back and slam the door shut behind me, but it would cost me a second to open it. A second would be more than enough for Zeus.

“He’s friendly,” Cornelius called out from the conference room. “He just wants to say hello.”

“Cornelius . . .”

“Just treat him as a poodle.”

What was wrong with my life and how did I get to this place?

Slowly, I raised my hand and offered it to Zeus. He sniffed my fingers and nudged my palm with his wide nose.

“He’s nudging me.”

“Try petting him.”

I brushed my fingers up Zeus’ wide nose and over the blue fur on his forehead. He made a low rumbling noise that could’ve been a purr or might have been a sign that he was hungry. His tentacles moved, caught my hand, and released. He stared at the cooler in my other hand.

“No.”

Zeus blinked his mahogany eyelashes.

“No. You can’t have it.”

He opened his mouth—it split and it just kept going and going—and licked his lips.

“Absolutely not.”

I sidestepped him and carefully edged into the conference room. Bern sat at the table in front of his laptop. Fatigue overlaid his face, tugging at the corners of his eyes. As I entered, Cornelius turned away from the kitchen counter, brought two cups of coffee over, and set one in front of Bern.

“Thank you,” my cousin said.

Cornelius sipped coffee from his steaming mug.

Zeus nudged my ribs with his nose and looked longingly at the cooler.

“Is there something edible in there?” Cornelius asked.

I opened the cooler and showed the contents to them.

“Oh,” Cornelius said.

Bern blinked.

I closed the cooler and put it into the fridge, next to my stash of Juicy Juice.

Zeus sighed.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite from Bern. He stared at me over the laptop, his face grim.

“I’ve been over the contents of Rynda’s computer three times. I’ve gone over all of his correspondence, and I’ve analyzed the fungi database for hidden patterns. It’s not a code for anything. If the file exists, it’s not there.”

“Thank you for looking,” I said.

“I didn’t find anything.” Bern sighed.

Zeus parked himself in front of me and stared wistfully at my coffee.

“He likes you,” Cornelius said.

“Has Matilda seen him yet?”

“Not yet. With everything that went on, I asked them to delay their visit until tonight.”

I got up and looked in the fridge. Juice, a bunch of old grapes I should’ve tossed three days ago, a pack of mozzarella string cheese sticks sealed together into a block with plastic wrap. That will do.

“Can I give him cheese?”

“I do believe he’s a mammal, so yes.”

I tore several cheese sticks off the block, came back to my seat, opened one, and offered it to Zeus. He pondered the cheese for a long moment and opened his mouth. I deposited the stick into it.

Zeus chewed thoughtfully.

“Bern, would you mind looking through Brian’s personal correspondence one more time?” I asked. “If you’re too sick of it, I can get Bug.”

“No, I’m not sick of it.” Bern sat up straighter. “What am I looking for?”

“I would like to help as well,” Cornelius said.

The arcane tiger nudged me. I fed another stick to Zeus. “I need to know if there are any hints that Brian Sherwood may have collaborated with his kidnappers.”

“Why?” Bern said.

I explained to them about the ear. As they listened, the frown on Bern’s face deepened.

“I believe it isn’t Brian’s ear,” I said. “It’s possible that Brian is innocent, and they somehow immobilized him and very carefully sliced his ear off, but I don’t think they would go to the trouble. It’s also possible that they decided not to mutilate him.”

“But?” Bern asked.

“It requires more preparation,” Cornelius said. “They would have to find a fresh corpse they could mutilate. Far simpler to just cut off Brian’s ear, and Alexander Sturm would have no problems slicing off an ear or a digit to make a point. He is . . . direct.”

I nodded. “Assuming this is Brian’s ear, it means they had an anesthesiologist and a surgeon ready. While I don’t doubt that Sturm’s money would buy both, it’s a complication they don’t need. Two more people aware of the kidnapping, extra risk to Brian’s life by putting him under, and so on. Far easier to just hack off his ear and be done with it. However, if Brian was an accomplice in his own kidnapping, they would leave his ears alone.”

I gave the last stick to the tiger-hound and wiped my hands against each other to show him that I was out.

“Are you sure of that?” Bern asked.

“Knowing Primes, they probably signed a contract, and they would stick to it.”

Cornelius grimaced. “Sadly, that’s accurate. We are a society of tigers. We are exquisitely polite and formal, because if we don’t spell out all of the rules from the start, an accidental misunderstanding will have fatal consequences.”

Tigers and dragons, oh my. And me without my ruby slippers.

But then, who needs ruby slippers when you can lobotomize people on the fly? I sighed.

“So I’m looking for any connection to Sturm or Harcourt,” Bern said.

“Or anyone else we know for a fact to have been involved in the conspiracy,” I said. “Howling. Rogan’s cousin.”

Her face flashed before me. For a second I was back in the car hurtling down the street as Rogan spun the wheel to avoid hitting Kelly Waller and the throng of small children she used as her living shield. Kelly Waller betrayed Rogan. She couldn’t get what was coming to her fast enough for my taste.

I turned to Cornelius. “You know this world better than us. Anything out of the ordinary could be important. A lunch in a place where Brian normally wouldn’t be seen. A function a man of his standing wouldn’t attend.”

“This will be very interesting,” Cornelius said.

“Do you want me to bring Bug in on this?” Bern asked.

“No.”

“Can I ask why not?”

“Because Rynda is working very hard on Rogan, and Bug resents her for it. If he thinks that Brian did cooperate, and we don’t know yet if he did or not, he may blurt it out at the point he thinks it will do the most damage.”

A chime sounded through the office. Someone was at the front door.

“That must be Scroll to pick up the ear.” I jumped up. “Hold on, I’ll just be a minute.”

I headed for the door.

“Nevada . . .” Bern called after me.

“One moment.” I checked the camera. A blond man in a dark suit stood with his back to me. I had expected Fullerton. Interesting.

I opened the door.

The man turned toward me. About thirty, he had a strong masculine face, so handsome it might as well have been chiseled out of stone. Square jaw, full lips, beautifully defined nose, and smart green eyes under the sweep of dark eyebrows. His blond hair, a few shades lighter than his eyebrows, and cut to a medium length, artfully framed his face, emphasizing its power. The effect was stunning. If I had seen him in a mall or on the street, I would’ve discreetly turned for a second look.

“Hello,” he said. “Are you Nevada Baylor?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, showing white teeth.

Wow.

“I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’m Garen Shaffer.”

Oh crap.

I had to say something.

“What a surprise.” Oh great. That was brilliant. “Please come in.”

Before Rogan sees you and decides to squish you with a random tank he has lying around somewhere in his industrial garage.

I stepped aside to let him pass. Zeus seized this opportunity to thrust himself in the space I vacated and give Garen a once-over.

Garen froze in place.

“Ignore him.” I nudged Zeus with my hip. He refused to budge. “He’s a recent rescue. We haven’t had a chance to train him. He isn’t used to strangers.” What the hell was coming out of my mouth?

“Houston animal shelter?” Garen asked, a little spark in his eyes.

“No. A summoner House, actually. Go see Cornelius.”

The massive beast twitched his ears.

“Zeus,” Cornelius called.

The tiger-hound turned and hurried into the conference room with liquid grace.

Garen stepped inside. I shut the front door and led him to my office. Sooner or later someone would report to Rogan that a person from House Shaffer appeared on my doorstep. Most likely they reported it the moment he drove up to the checkpoint. The consequences would be interesting.

I sat behind my desk. Garen Shaffer sat in my client chair. I touched my laptop. It came on. A message window from Bern opened.

Better and better.

I put on my professional smile and clicked the small icon in the corner of the laptop, enabling recording. We had a hidden camera positioned on the shelf behind me. We’d had some trouble with clients who displayed selective memory, and it was amazing how quickly threats of lawsuits faded once we presented a recording of them saying the words they claimed they couldn’t remember.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Shaffer?”

He leaned back, throwing one long leg over the other. “I’ve come to hire you.”

Lie. This was a test.

“That would be a lie, Mr. Shaffer. Care to try again?”

“Would you mind?”

“No.”

Magic accreted around him. “I’m thirty-one years old.”

My power pressed against the magic wall and slipped through. “True.”

The magic wall grew denser.

“I have three sisters.”

“Lie.”

Magic spilled out of him like water out of a geyser. It wrapped him in a cocoon of power. How the hell did he do that?

“I’m the only child.”

The cocoon looked impenetrable. My magic wrapped around it. The wall of power held tight. If I hammered against it with brute force, we’d be locked in a fight, his will against mine. He was strong. Very strong. Possibly stronger than I, although we wouldn’t figure it out until we clashed. A part of me really wanted to find out.

Ignore the wall. Imagine it’s porous. Imagine it’s not there.

He narrowed his eyes.

His wall was stone, but my magic was water. It slipped through the cracks. All I had to do was guide it and let it flow . . .

Lie.

“I think we should stop.” I leaned back.

The wall vanished. His magic wrapped around me. “Are you trying to appear stronger than you are or weaker?”

“Neither. I just don’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

“I don’t trust you.” I waved my hand in front of my face, as if clearing smoke. “Please keep your magic to yourself.”

He smiled. His power vanished.

“Why is there a cooler in the fridge?” Arabella called from the conference room.

When did she even get a chance to get in there? “Leave the cooler alone. Stay out of the fridge.”

“Sister?” he guessed.

I made a face at him.

“I have one myself. They are difficult at times.”

Arabella stuck her head into my office and showed me the Ziploc bag with the ear. “Why are you dressed like a soldier? Is that blood on your clothes? Also, why is there a human ear in the fridge?”

Argh. Just argh.

Garen’s eyebrows crept up.

“It’s evidence,” I ground out. “Put it back in the cooler.”

“Fine, fine.”

She went back into the conference room.

“I would very much like to take you to dinner.”

I made a show of looking down at my ACUs. “Today wouldn’t be a good day.”

“What about tomorrow?”

I raised my head and pretended to consider it. “Unfortunately, I’m in the middle of something, so I can’t promise I won’t stand you up.”

I felt something, a light click, like he’d flicked his fingers against my palm. Was it his magic working? Is that what it felt like?

“That’s okay. I’m a very patient man.”

True. He was flirting with me.

“Okay, I’ll go to dinner with you if you answer a question.”

He leaned forward, his green eyes fixed on me. “It’s a deal.”

“Do you feel a click when I spot-check your answers for truth, and if so, does everyone or is it a truthseeker thing?”

“That’s three questions.”

Two could play the flirting game. “Do you want me to come to dinner with you or not?”

He pretended to consider it. “You drive a hard bargain. Yes, no, and it is a truthseeker thing. We call it pinging. There is nothing like coming home late in a damaged car and having both parents ping you in stereo as you answer their questions. Tomorrow at six?”

“Where?”

“Bistro le Cep. They tell me that’s the best place in Houston for quiet conversation.”

I had no idea where that was. “Very well. Tomorrow at six.”

We both got up. He held the door of my office open for me. I walked him to the outside door and watched him get into a black Cadillac. The car reversed and rolled down the street, unmolested.

Arabella came up to stand next to me.

“He was pretty.”

“What was that all about? You never interrupt me while I’m with clients.”

“Bern texted me and told me to do it. He said you and he sat completely still, staring at each other for ten minutes. He thought something might have gone wrong and said I should check on you.”

Smart move. Garen would consider Bern with his wrestler build and judo shoulders a threat. But Arabella, barely five feet and maybe one hundred and ten pounds wet, would seem harmless. Garen had no idea how close he’d come to being crushed to death.

Ten minutes. Must’ve been when I was trying to find a way through his wall. Felt like a few seconds. I wonder if that’s what Augustine Montgomery felt like. Over a week ago I was trying to convince him to let me shield his mind from Victoria Tremaine, and I pulled some harmless but private information out of his mind. He never realized it happened until I told him. It was like a chunk of time simply disappeared from his memory.

Cold sweat drenched my hairline.

I spun around, ran the few feet to my office, and grabbed my laptop.

“What?” Arabella demanded. “What is it?”

The image of me and Garen sitting across from each other filled the screen.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Shaffer?”

“I’ve come to hire you.”

I clicked to fast forward. Frantic gestures and teeny voices. Blah-blah-blah . . . There.

Garen and I stared at each other. I zoomed in on myself and turned the sound up.

Nothing. I sat completely still, like a statue. So did he. No movements. No words. Just quiet staring. All my secrets were still mine.

I collapsed in the chair. I was suddenly so exhausted.

“Nevada? Are you okay?” Arabella grabbed a tissue box from the corner of the desk and thrust it at me.

I touched my face and realized I was crying.

“I think you’re stressed out,” my sister said. “I have a pack of cigarettes I’ve been hiding from Mom for when Catalina and I get stressed out. There is one left.”

“Mom is going to kill you when she finds out.”

“She won’t find out if you don’t tell her.”

I got up and hugged her.

“Are you okay?” my little sister asked.

“No. But I’m going to be. We’re all going to be.”

My laptop screamed at me. Bug’s face filled it. “Get here! Now, now, now!”

I sprinted out the door to Rogan’s HQ, Arabella at my heels.

I ran through the first floor, pounded up the stairs, and burst onto the second floor. Rynda stood next to Bug, her face pale, her phone to her ear. Kidnappers.

“. . . scared me. I’m very scared.”

She listened for a moment. “My husband is everything to me. I’m going to give the phone to Ms. Baylor. She’s authorized to negotiate on our behalf.” She handed the phone to me.

“This is Nevada Baylor.”

“Good,” a cultured male voice said on the other end. “Perhaps we can finally get somewhere.”

“You broke the rules of engagement,” I said.

Bug’s fingers danced over the keyboard and the man’s voice echoed through the room.

“Oh?”

“We had an understanding, and you broke it.”

“What kind of an understanding, Ms. Baylor?”

“You want your ransom. My client wants the father of her children safely home. You trust that we won’t involve authorities and that we will surrender the ransom, and we trust that you will keep Brian safe and allow us time to prepare the ransom. You made a demand, you gave us no chance to respond, and then you sent Harcourt to attack Rynda and her children in her house. And now you sent us a severed ear. This is a severe breach of trust.”

There was a long pause.

“The Harcourt incident was unplanned,” the man said finally. “It won’t be repeated.”

“Is Brian still alive?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“We would like proof of life, please.”

“Very well.”

The phone went silent. Rynda clenched her fists.

“Hello.” Brian’s quiet voice echoed through the room.

Bug pushed a mic toward Rynda. “How are you?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“In pain,” he said.

“Did they treat your wound? Did they bring in a doctor?” Rynda asked.

“Yes, but it still hurts. Please give them whatever they want.”

“I love you,” she said. “I’m trying, honey. I’m doing everything I can. Please hold on for a little longer.”

“I love you too,” Brian said. He sounded dull, his words devoid of any emotion. Maybe it was his ear, and he was in shock.

Rynda clenched her hands into a single fist. She looked like she wanted to scream.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” the kidnapper said, “let’s get back to business, shall we?”

“It would help us a great deal if you told us what we’re looking for,” I said.

“You cannot believe that Rynda is that naive.”

“I don’t need to believe anything,” I said. “I’m a truthseeker, and I’m telling you that my client has no idea what you’re asking. The most I got out of Vincent, before he dove through the window, was that it’s something connected to Rynda’s mother.”

Another pause. Vincent mustn’t have told him. Ha.

“That should be good enough,” he said.

“We’re looking for a needle in a haystack and we don’t even know if it’s a needle. It could be a pen or an apple. We’ve gone through Brian and Rynda’s computers. We didn’t find it.”

“It’s not in the computer.” A note of irritation crept into his voice. “It’s somewhere in the house. Or outside of it, in a personal safe deposit box, or wherever else Olivia stashed it.”

“You want us to find we don’t know what in we don’t know where.”

“And you’ll find it, if you want Brian to survive.”

“Could you at least give us time?”

“Very well. You have forty-eight hours.”

I had expected twenty-four.

“I suggest you make good use of it. I hate to see children cry because they miss their parent, don’t you? If I don’t have what I need in forty-eight hours, I’ll deliver their father to them in pieces.”

The disconnect signal filled the room. Bug turned the feed off.

“Someone needs to squish him,” Arabella said. Red tinted her cheeks. She clenched her teeth. He really managed to piss her off.

I turned to Rynda. “You don’t have to worry about Brian for forty-eight hours.”

“But what happens at the end?” She hugged herself.

“We’ll deal with that then. Have you called Scroll?”

“Yes. They’re on the way.”

“Good. I need you to take this evening and think back over the past few weeks. They seem to be absolutely sure that whatever they want is in your house or somewhere where you would have access to it. Did your mother give you anything as a keepsake? No matter how unimportant? Ask the kids.”

She sighed. “I’ll do that.”

“I can talk to the children.”

“No.” She held up her hand. “No, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.”

She went down the stairs.

I turned to Bug, held out my phone, and typed a text to Bern, holding the phone so Bug could see what I was typing. I didn’t want to take any chances that Rynda or someone else would overhear.

“On it.”

I leaned to Bug and whispered. “Could you please check the route Brian took to work and find out how many cameras are facing that street?”

Bug blinked and ran to his workstation.

My cell rang. Please be something good. I looked at it. Rogan.

Here we go. We’d have to discuss Garen Shaffer. I knew this would happen sooner or later. “Hello?”

His voice had the calm, collected overtones of a Prime. “You promised me a dinner.”

My mind made a 180-degree turn and it took me a second to catch up. “Yes.”

“I’ll pick you up in an hour and a half. Cocktail attire.”

Cocktail attire meant there was probably a reservation. I was wearing bloodstained ACUs.

“Do you need a dress?”

What was he up to? “No. I have one.”

“See you at seven.”

I exhaled and trudged back down the stairs to take a shower and get dressed.

Behind me Arabella spoke into the phone. “Catalina, what are you doing? . . . Can you cancel that? Nevada needs help.”

“Did he say what this was about?” Grandma Frida asked for the twelfth time.

“No.”

I sat at the kitchen table and tried to work on my laptop. Bern and Cornelius were still going through Brian’s correspondence, so I decided to scour his mushroom Pinterest account.

When you waited for an important phone call, ninety minutes seemed like an impossibly long time. When you had to go from blood and gore to some sort of presentable, ninety minutes was nothing. Luckily for me, my sisters had mobilized to help. The moment I stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around myself, Arabella attacked my hair. Catalina appeared with an airbrush I’d bought her last Christmas, because she kept worrying about her nonexistent acne and told me to sit down and not move my face. I was dried, styled, and had a liquid mist of makeup sprayed at my face. I drew the line at contouring. If I gave them free rein, I’d come out of my bathroom with skull-like cheeks and Cleopatra-style wings on my eyes. But because of them, I had finished in record time.

Now Rogan had to show up.

The word of his previous failure to appear must’ve spread, because the entire family found their way to the kitchen one by one. Bern was reading a textbook in the corner. Grandma Frida sat next to me and attempted to knit something that was probably a scarf but looked like a brilliant attempt at a Gordian knot. My mother rearranged the tea drawer, which she’s never done since we’ve had one. Arabella sat across from me, her gaze glued to her cell phone. Catalina sat on my left, texting furiously. Zeus lounged under the table by my feet, and Cornelius was drinking tea across the table. Even Leon wandered in and leaned against the wall, waiting.

Nobody was talking.

“Just out of curiosity,” Cornelius said, “if Rogan doesn’t arrive, will all of you skin him alive?”

“Yes,” everyone except me said at the same time.

I sighed.

The doorbell rang.

I clicked the key on my laptop. The view from the front camera filled it. A woman stood at the door, wearing a dark pantsuit, her silvery-blond hair caught in a ponytail. A little girl with dark hair stood next to her holding a large white cat. A large Doberman pinscher dutifully guarded both of them. Diana, Matilda, her cat, and Bunny.

“Matilda is here,” I said.

“Oh good.” Catalina got up and went to open the door. A few moments later, Cornelius’ sister and his daughter made their way to our kitchen.

“Daddy.” Matilda held out her hands. Cornelius got up off his chair, crouched, and hugged her. Arabella discreetly took a pic with her phone. I couldn’t blame her. Matilda was too cute for words.

Matilda blinked. She looked a lot like her late mother, Nari Harrison, but her expression, serious and somber, was pure Cornelius.

Behind her, Diana frowned. “What is that?”

Matilda’s eyes widened. “A kitty.”

“I have a surprise for you.” Cornelius smiled.

Oh. He hadn’t told them.

Zeus shifted under the table, a massive furry shape, and his huge head poked out half a foot from Matilda’s face.

Matilda opened her mouth, her eyes wide.

“Oh my God,” Diana said.

Bunny froze in place, clearly unsure what to do.

Matilda held out her hand. Zeus nudged it with his nose. She backed up, and the huge beast squeezed all of himself out. He was a foot taller than Matilda. She gasped.

The blue beast lowered his head, and Matilda hugged his furry neck. “He’s so soft.”

My sisters snapped simultaneous pictures.

“He is beautiful . . .” Diana crouched and scratched under Zeus’ chin. “The eyes, Cornell. Like jewels. How did you even manage this? This isn’t possible.”

“Feel him,” Cornelius said.

“I do. That’s remarkable.”

The door chimed again. I checked my laptop.

Rogan stood at our front door. Behind him a gunmetal-grey Mercedes-Benz E200 waited, its lights on. Rogan wore a black suit. He was perfectly proportioned, and unless I stood next to him, it was easy to forget how large he was. The suit emphasized everything, from his height and long legs to his narrow flat waist and broad shoulders. He’d shaved. His short hair was brushed. He looked every inch a billionaire.

He was definitely up to something.

“He’s here!” Grandma Frida announced.

My family forgot about the tiger-hound and crowded all around me.

“Hot!” Arabella declared.

“He’s going to propose.” Grandma Frida rubbed her hands together.

“Mother!” my mom growled.

“He isn’t going to propose. We’re going to dinner. Let me up!”

I managed to escape the table.

“A date?” Diana asked, smiling.

“A dinner,” I said.

“You look like a princess,” Matilda told me.

“Thank you!” I hugged her, but she had already forgotten about me. Zeus was much more fascinating.

I marched through the office to the front door and walked out into the Texas winter, where Rogan was waiting for me. He tilted his head, and I saw the exact moment heat sparked in his eyes.

“You look fantastic,” he said.

I wore a black dress, an Adriana Red original, from an up-and-coming Houston designer. I bought it for three hundred dollars last year, when her boutique store had just opened. Two months later a young star wore her green gown to the Emmys, and suddenly Adriana became a fashion name. I couldn’t afford her anymore—her prices had tripled overnight—but as far as I was concerned, I was wearing her best work. The dress was simple, but it glided down my body in a controlled cascade, emphasizing all the right curves while still making me look elegant. Its hemline fell a couple of inches above the knee, the perfect length to show off my legs while still remaining professional. The V-neck plunged a little lower than was strictly appropriate for a business dinner, but I wasn’t having a business dinner. My hair fell on my back in soft waves. My shoes gave me four inches of extra height. My outfit wouldn’t take any fashion prisoners, but nobody could find fault with it.

Rogan’s eyes had turned hot and dark.

“You look great too,” I told him.

“The dress needs a little sparkle.” He pulled a rectangular black box out of his pocket and opened it. A beautiful emerald lay inside. A little larger than my thumbnail, the stone caught the light from the lamp above the door and shone with breathtaking green tinted with a hint of blue. It dangled on the pale gold chain like a tear.

“Yes?” Rogan asked. There was a slight wariness in him, as if he expected things to go terribly wrong any second.

“It’s gorgeous,” I told him honestly.

He took it from the box. I held up my hair and he slipped the chain over my neck. The stone settled on my skin, a radiant drop of light.

“Just for dinner though,” I told him. “I can’t keep it.”

“I bought it for you,” he said. “I meant to give it to you for Christmas.”

His face told me that rejecting the necklace would be rejecting him. Yes, it was an expensive emerald. I was probably wearing fifty thousand dollars on my neck, which was more than all of the jewelry I’ve owned in my lifetime put together. But then he had more money than he could count in a lifetime, and if he wanted me to wear the necklace, I would.

“Thank you.”

He smiled, a satisfied dragon.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it to dinner,” I told him quietly.

“Then you better get in the car.”

He held the door out for me and I slid into the heated interior of the Mercedes.

Flanders’ Steakhouse sat at the top of a twenty-story building on Louisiana Street, just southwest of the theater district, and it took full advantage of the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows presented the spectacular expanse of the night sky, below which Houston spread, glowing with warm yellow and orange against the darkness. Freeways curved among the towers, channeling the current of cars seemingly through mid-air. The floor, ceiling, and walls offered soothing browns, and the delicate chandeliers, wrought iron spirals supporting upturned triangles of pale glass, softened the décor even further. I’d gone out on a few business dinners, and most Houston steakhouses catered to executives with business accounts. They ran either straight into rustic Texas, with longhorn skulls and cow pelts on the walls, or they resembled gentlemen’s clubs, where one had to be a card-carrying member. This was nice.

It finally hit me. We were on a date. Our first real date.

An impeccably dressed host led us through the restaurant, past well-dressed patrons. Some of them had to be House members, because as we moved past them, they saw Rogan’s face and stopped what they were doing. I got a few stares as well, some surprised and puzzled, some openly curious, especially from women. Women watched Rogan wherever he went, and I was getting the once-overs as they tried to figure out what was so special. That was fine. They wouldn’t ruin the date for me.

We arrived at a secluded table covered in chocolate-colored cloth. Rogan held my chair out. He didn’t make it slide out for me with his power. No telekinetic fireworks. Tonight it would be just me and Connor.

I sat. He took his place across from me, with his back against the wall, a spot that would conveniently let him watch the entire restaurant for incoming danger.

A waitress appeared at our table as if by magic. Menus were placed in front of us.

“Wine?” Rogan asked me.

Why not. “Yes.”

“What do you like?”

I liked Asti Spumante. It was sweet and bubbly and it cost five dollars per bottle. “Red. Not too dry.” Here’s hoping I didn’t make a fool of myself.

Rogan ordered a wine from the list. The waitress bowed her head as if she was granted knighthood by some royalty and glided away.

I grinned at Rogan from above my menu.

He grinned back. The set of his shoulders relaxed slightly.

I stared at the menu. Oh my.

“I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since I stole a bear claw from your kitchen this morning.”

“You didn’t steal it. All my bear claws are yours.”

I studied the appetizers. Roasted Portobello mushroom ravioli. Tenderloin carpaccio. Chilled seafood cocktail.

“Is something wrong?” he asked me. There it was, that weary caution in his eyes.

“I’m trying to decide what I can order that has the smallest chances of me spilling it on myself.”

He laughed quietly under his breath. “I’ve never seen you spill anything on yourself.”

“That’s not true. When we were climbing through the Dumpsters into the high-rise on Sam Houston, I spilled rancid spaghetti all over myself.”

And why did I just mention rancid spaghetti. I sighed.

“That doesn’t count. You stepped on it.”

More like rolled in it, but now wasn’t the best time to point out that distinction.

The waitress appeared again with a bottle of red wine. She dramatically opened it and poured a little into two glasses. There was some sort of ceremony here I remembered from the movies. You held the glass a certain way, swished the wine inside, smelled it or something. I raised the glass and took a small sip. It washed over my tongue, warm and refreshing.

“It’s delicious,” I said.

Rogan nodded at the waitress. She beamed and stepped aside. Another waiter appeared. A bread basket was placed on our table containing several small loaves, crunchy and fresh from the oven. Small heated plates of two types of herbed olive oil followed. The aroma of freshly baked bread made my mouth water.

“Appetizers?” the waitress asked.

I hit complete decision paralysis. “You pick.”

“Carpaccio,” he said.

I had ordered carpaccio the first time we ate together, in Takara, when he was trying to convince me to work for him. He remembered.

The waitress nodded and we were alone again.

I took a swallow of my wine. The tension of the day slowly seeped out of me.

He reached over and covered my hand with his, lacing his fingers with mine.

“Hey,” I told him.

“Hey.” He smiled and Mad Rogan went away. Connor was looking at me. We might as well have been alone in the whole world.

“Thank you. I needed this after today.”

“Thank you for coming with me. It doesn’t always have to be blood and gore. It can also be this.”

“This is very nice.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Carpaccio arrived. I ordered a double-thick pork chop, and Rogan went for a dry-aged rib eye.

The carpaccio tasted divine. We ate it with crusty bread dipped in olive oil.

“You were in mortal danger this evening,” I told him.

“Oh?”

“My whole family waited in the kitchen for you to show up. If you stood me up, there would’ve been hell to pay.”

He grinned. “Your family likes me. I would charm them into sparing my life.”

“I don’t know. They were pretty determined.”

He leaned forward. “But I can be so charming.”

Oh yes. Yes, he could. It’s not hard to be charming when you are that smoking hot. I had to pace myself.

The restaurant wavered around me, receding. The light changed, growing soft and golden. I was in bed with Rogan. Neither of us was wearing a shred of clothes. His big hand slid up my thigh . . .

I pulled back from the projection just enough to see him looking at me from across the table.

“Be careful,” I told him, and licked the wine off my lips. His gaze snagged on my tongue. “You might set the tablecloth on fire.”

He looked on the verge of getting up and dragging me out of the restaurant to have incredible sex in the car. And I would totally go with him.

The projection vanished, like the flame of a snuffed-out candle.

Rogan’s eyes iced over. He picked up his glass and leaned back as a man approached our table. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a custom-tailored suit with casual elegance. His skin was dark brown, his hair cropped very short, and a precise narrow goatee traced his jaw. I’d only met him once, but he’d made an impression. It was the eyes. You looked into them and knew this was a dangerously smart man.

“Rogan.”

“Latimer,” Rogan said. “Chair?”

Michael Latimer nodded. A chair moved by itself from the nearest empty table and slid to ours. Latimer sat.

“The Harcourts reached out to me today,” he said. “They offered a strategic alliance on very favorable terms. Do I need to worry about you, Rogan?”

True.

“My business with them is concluded,” Rogan said. “Except for Vincent.”

“You have plans for Vincent?”

“Yes.”

“Do those plans hinge on him no longer breathing?”

“Yes.”

Latimer leaned back. The chair creaked slightly. “They’ve given up. They don’t think they can protect Vincent.”

“Agreed. They know they’ll be vulnerable without their biggest gun,” Rogan said.

Latimer raised his eyebrows, thinking. “Good information to have. Enjoy your evening.”

He rose and looked at me. “The offer stands. Any time, any place.”

“Thank you.”

Michael Latimer walked away.

Rogan turned to me. “What offer?”

“When Augustine took me to Baranovsky’s gala, Latimer saw the bruises on my neck and mistook me for a domestic abuse victim. His aunt distracted Augustine, while he offered to walk me out of the gala and take me to a doctor and give me a safe place to stay.”

Rogan leaned to the side to look after Latimer. “Michael Latimer?”

“Mhm. He wasn’t lying.”

“Interesting,” Rogan said.

Our waitress appeared by our table with our food.

My pork chop was incredible. I decided that I didn’t care if I spilled food on myself. I did care if other people saw me shovel the food in my mouth as if I were a cavewoman, so I forced myself to cut painfully small bites.

“We should have dessert,” Rogan said.

I eyed my pork chop. My plate had enough meat to feed me for two days.

“What’s your favorite dessert?” he asked.

“I don’t know what it’s called. I had it one time when I was maybe nine or ten. Mom was deployed, and Grandma Frida and Grandpa Leon took my sisters and cousins to Rockport Beach for three days. I was supposed to go, but I got sick and spent the first day throwing up in Dad’s office. I was so miserable. Everyone was at the beach, and here I was sleeping in the office next to a bucket. On the morning of the second day I kept down some crackers and by the evening I was so hungry. Dad closed a big case, and he took me to some restaurant to celebrate. I don’t remember what I had for dinner, but Dad said I could have whatever I wanted for dessert. So I ordered something called the treasure box. They brought it out and it was this big cube made of chocolate. I tried it with the spoon and the top broke. The chocolate was paper thin. There was this amazing cream inside mixed with raspberries and blueberries. It was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” I smiled at the memory. “Your turn.”

“Chocolate mousse,” he said without hesitation. “I craved it in the jungle. No idea why. Never liked chocolate much before. Some days when we were starving, I’d wake with the taste of it in my mouth, thinking it was real. When we walked out, they put us into helicopters and brought us to Arrow Point, the base in Belize. I stayed awake until they got us to the hospital. All these people were running around, frantically trying to make sure I didn’t die on their watch. At some point someone asked me what I wanted. I must’ve told them, because when I woke up in the hospital bed, it was waiting for me.”

I wanted to hug him. I had to settle for reaching out and gently stroking his hand with my fingers. “Was it good?”

“Yes. It was.”

A young woman walked up to our table on tall needle heels. She was about twenty, with light blond hair, twisted into a complicated arrangement on the back of her head. Her skin was flawless and her makeup expertly applied. She wore a black cocktail dress, but unlike my simple number, hers consisted of artfully sewn strips of ghostly black silk, each strip shot through with a streak of gold. The dress screamed money. She knew she was beautiful and she was used to taking it as her due.

She ignored me, her gaze fixed on Rogan. “My name is Sloan Marcus of House Marcus.”

Rogan pondered her.

“We’re the third largest telekinetic House in Texas,” she said. “I’m a third-generation Prime. I’m twenty-one, in good health, and free of genetic diseases. I’m a graduate of Princeton. You interest me. My profile will be available to you on request.”

She just propositioned him right in front of me.

Rogan nodded. “My companion is much too polite to explain the facts to you, Sloan, so I’ll have to take it upon myself. She and I had a rather trying morning, and, having washed off the blood and gore, we came here for a quiet meal. You’re interrupting it.”

Color tinted her cheeks. She wasn’t embarrassed. She was angry at being rebuffed. “I don’t believe you understand. I said, my profile will be available to you.”

“I don’t think he wants to see your profile,” I told her. “He hasn’t even looked at mine, and we’re sleeping together.”

She condescended to look at me. “Primes marry other Primes.”

I smiled at her and kept eating.

Sloan raised her chin. “Nobody says no to me.”

“Lie,” I said.

“How dare you?”

“It’s a fact,” I told her. “Someone says no to you a lot. You lied about being twenty-one as well, but it was a good speech, so I didn’t interrupt.”

Rogan laughed quietly.

“Who do you think you are—”

“Leave us,” Rogan said. His voice had a tone of unmistakable command to it.

Sloan opened her mouth. Rogan’s magic splayed out around him, an invisible but violent current. The dragon had opened his wings.

Sloan stumbled back, her face shocked, and hurried off on her impossible heels.

Rogan’s magic vanished.

“Have you ever checked if you and I are compatible?” I asked.

He frowned. “I’d have to get Tremaine records for that. Do you think your grandmother would give me access?”

“I doubt it. Although you never know with her. Didn’t she promise me to you?”

“Yes.”

Now was as good of a time as any. “Garen Shaffer came to see me today.”

Rogan’s face was relaxed, almost casual, as he cut his steak. “The heir.”

“He asked to have dinner with me tomorrow.” I cut another tiny slice of the pork chop. “I said yes.”

Something crunched. Rogan kept eating, his expression perfectly calm. The thick window glass beside us developed a hairline crack all the way across the top corner, just above Rogan.

“Thinking about the future is important,” Rogan said, his voice neutral. “I understand why you want to keep all possibilities open.”

Oh, you idiot. “A truthseeker was involved in breaking through the hex and helping Pierce to find the artifact. A truthseeker also created a barrier in Harcourt’s mind. We haven’t yet been confirmed as a House, but the moment our profile went up, Shaffer jumped on it. I’d like to know more about him.”

“That’s as good of a reason as any.”

“If he’s working with Harcourt, he may know where Brian is kept.”

“Sounds logical.” He was cutting his steak with surgical precision.

“I’d like you to watch.”

“Of course.” He froze with his fork in midair. “Run that by me again?”

I spoke slowly. “I’m going to record the conversation with a hidden camera and send live feed to Bern. I’d like you to watch it.”

He just stared at me.

“Going to see Shaffer carries a risk. He did something today in my office that made it difficult for me to recognize if he was lying. He was testing my magic. There is some possibility that he will try to do the same thing with me as I did with Augustine. If you hear me start to confess things, please call me. I’m hoping a phone call will be enough of an interruption, but I can’t be sure.”

“So you don’t mind if I listen in on your date?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Your dinner appointment.”

I sighed. “If I minded, I wouldn’t ask you to monitor the conversation.”

He came to life like a shark sensing a drop of blood in the water. “What if I come with you and just get a different table?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re clearly concerned. I’m also concerned about your safety. If you allow me, I can be near in case things go wrong.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the moment Shaffer puts his fork down the wrong way, you’ll storm in there and slice off his head with his silverware. Or some loose change in your pocket.”

“I won’t need silverware or anything else. If he hurts you, I’ll wring his neck with my hands.”

I pointed my fork at him. “And this is exactly why you will give me your word that you will maintain some distance.”

“How much distance?”

“Lots.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Rogan, stop.”

He took a swallow of his wine. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes did. They grew guarded.

“Sturm,” he said quietly.

I pulled my magic to myself and let it out, drenching the table in it.

A man walked up. He was about six feet tall, lean, and pale, with eyes the color of coffee grounds. His dark brown hair framed his face in soft waves, long enough to brush his neck. He’d shaved that morning, but now stubble peppered his jaw, and he didn’t seem to care. He had an attractive face, but not handsome. Where Augustine’s features had the perfection of beauty, and Rogan’s spoke of power, Sturm’s telegraphed focus. He was a man who would patiently plot and think of a strategy. His eyes said he’d be ruthless in its implementation. Watching him wasn’t really a choice, it was a compulsion. He tripped some instinctual alarm deep inside my brain that said, Danger, and my survival dictated I had to keep an eye on him to see what he’d do next.

“Rogan. Fancy meeting you here. What a lovely surprise,” Sturm said. His voice had a slight rasp. If wolves could assume human form, they would sound just like that. Come to think of it, he looked like a wolf too. A patient, vicious, smart wolf.

“Sturm,” Rogan said, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Sturm landed in the spare chair. I drank my wine and moved my magic, one thin strand at a time, to wrap around him.

“I thought you became a complete recluse,” Sturm said. “A hero damaged by war and withdrawn from us ordinary mortals. Yet here you are having a steak at Flanders’, in presentable clothes even, and your date is wearing the Tear of the Aegean around her neck. How wrong I was.”

The Tear of the Aegean?

“Assumptions can be dangerous things,” Rogan said.

“Indeed. A man can often assume that he is in the right, only to find himself unexpectedly on the wrong side of history.” Sturm smiled. “I’m glad to see you out and about, Rogan, enjoying the finer side of life. This is, after all, what being a Prime is all about. Comfort. Wealth. Power.”

“Duty,” Rogan said.

Sturm rolled his eyes. “You’re no fun. What do you think about all this, Ms. Baylor?”

“It’s nice. My pork chop was delicious. The wine is also excellent.”

Sturm bared his teeth in a sharp grin. “Your pork chop. That’s priceless. You’re delightful.”

“That’s right. Have you ever met Vincent Harcourt, Mr. Sturm?”

“Of course.”

I wrapped the strands of magic tighter around him. “Does he strike you as an erratic man? The kind who can ruin a carefully structured plan by failing to follow simple orders?”

Sturm laughed his lupine raspy laugh. “You haven’t even been certified as a Prime, Ms. Baylor, but you play the game so well. Doesn’t she, Rogan?”

Rogan didn’t answer. He took another small swallow of his wine.

“A man in our position has to play the game well, as Rogan will tell you, Ms. Baylor. Otherwise we risk losing everything. People who work for us. People we love. Before you know it, we find ourselves cowering in a tiny bunker while the tornados of fate roar overhead. But then sometimes the tradition of losing runs in the family. How is your nephew doing, Rogan?”

Rogan smiled. The window beside us cracked with a lovely musical crunch.

That smile meant murder. I reached out and put my hand on his wrist. “Please don’t.”

“Ah.” Sturm smiled again. “The civilizing influence of women. What would men do without it?”

I turned to him. “Some men are too thick to realize that when they push too far, other men may murder them without any thought of consequences. Such men would be wise to remember that consequences won’t matter to them, because they would be dead.”

Sturm glanced at the window. The hairline cracks framed extremely sharp glass shards. If the window shattered, the shards could slice him to ribbons, especially if they were precision-guided by a Prime telekinetic.

“I see I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“No,” Rogan said. “Stay. Chat a bit more. Let’s catch up.”

“Sorry, but I do have to be going.” Sturm rose. “Think about what I said, Rogan. It’s not too late to walk on the right side.”

He walked away.

“What am I wearing, Rogan?” I asked.

His face looked pained. “A shiny rock.”

True. Fine. I pulled out my phone and typed “Tear of the Aegean” into the search window.

I choked on empty air.

“Do you want to stay for dessert?” he asked.

“No.”

Our waitress appeared, as if summoned.

“We’re ready to go,” Rogan told her. “Put the window on my bill.”

We walked out of Flanders’ and got into the car. Rogan drove through the night city.

“Why?” I asked finally.

“Because I love you.”

“Sixteen million dollars.”

He didn’t say anything.

Houston’s glowing lights slid past the window.

“I wanted to show you the other side of being a Prime,” he said. “The benefits of it.”

“You mean the benefits of a stuck-up asshole in an Armani suit threatening us or the part where some random woman throws herself at you?” Ouch. Okay, that wasn’t fair.

“The difference between her and Garen is practice. She’ll get better with experience.”

“Garen didn’t come on to me.”

“He will.”

I sighed.

“I wanted tonight to be just about us,” Rogan said. “Free of killing and gore. Just you and me. No Prime business.”

And instead there was a never-ending parade, at the end of which Alexander Sturm came to gloat. And I pointed it out. Oh, Connor.

“It can be peaceful,” he said. “We’re at war right now, but we won’t always be.”

He turned onto our street.

“Will you drop me off at my house?” I asked.

He brought the car to a smooth stop before the warehouse. I reached for the chain around my neck.

“No,” he said, steel in his voice.

“I can’t. It’s too expensive. I . . .”

“I bought it for you,” he said.

If I forced him to take it back, he would toss it out of the window and drive off. I could see it in his eyes.

“Okay. Don’t wait for me. I’ll be a little bit.”

His face shut down.

I stepped out of the car and punched the code into the warehouse door.

Mom and Grandma Frida were still in the kitchen, bickering about something in low voices. The moment I walked in, everything stopped.

I took off the chain and put the diamond on the table.

“Ooo, shiny.” Grandma Frida stared at it. “What is it?”

“It’s sixteen million dollars.”

I landed into a chair. My mother and grandmother stared at me, mute.

“Sixteen million dollars?” Mom finally found her voice.

“It’s a green-blue diamond. There are only three in the world. I tried to give it back to him and he refuses to take it. We’re just keeping it for a little while. Can we put it somewhere safe so I can give it back to him when he feels better?”

“Did he propose and you turned him down?” Grandma Frida demanded.

“No. He didn’t propose. It’s a Christmas present. It was a nice dinner.” It wasn’t Rogan’s fault that Sturm ruined the end of it.

My mother rubbed her temples. “Where would we even put it? We don’t have a safe.”

“I can put it into the spare ammo lockbox and you can keep it in your bedroom,” Grandma Frida said.

“Let’s do that. And please don’t tell my sisters.” The last thing I needed was them taking selfies with the Tear of the Aegean. I got up and went to the fridge. Let’s see, eggs, whipping cream, butter . . . We had chocolate chips somewhere here.

“What are you doing?” Mom asked.

“I’m making chocolate mousse.”

“Now?” Grandma Frida asked.

“Yes.”

Thirty minutes later, with the diamond safe under my bed, I grabbed my favorite sleeping T-shirt out of the laundry, stuffed it, my laptop, and a packet of makeup wipes into a canvas bag, grabbed the baking pan with six teacups filled with mousse and a small container of freshly whipped cream, and walked over to Rogan’s HQ.

Bug was still at his station. His face brightened when he saw me. “Hey you!”

“Hey. Any news?”

“No more calls. All quiet. What’s in the pan?”

“Chocolate mousse.”

“Why?”

“Because Rogan likes it. Good night.”

“Good night.”

I climbed up another flight of stairs and tried Rogan’s door. The door handle turned in my hands. I walked in. He sat at a desk, his face illuminated by the glow of the computer. He wore sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His feet were bare. This was Rogan in his off mode—relaxed, tired, and unbearably hot.

He turned and saw me. Surprise slapped his face. He didn’t think I was coming over. He thought I was mad at him. Foolish, foolish Rogan.

I walked to the small fridge in the corner, which, as I discovered last night, he used for drinks, and slid the pan in there. It was a tight fit, but I managed. I went to the closet in the right wall, shrugged off my shoes, peeled off my stockings, got out of my dress, and took off my bra. Finally. There was nothing quite as good as getting out of a bra at the end of the day. I pulled on my sleeping T-shirt, went to the sink, and washed the war paint off my face. It took a while. The cold floor felt so good under my toes after they had been squished into those terrible shoes for two hours.

Finally, face clean, teeth brushed, I grabbed my laptop and flopped on Rogan’s bed, backwards, with my feet toward the headboard. I had neglected my email box for the last week and a half. There were things in there that couldn’t wait, like bills and invoice payments.

About a minute later, Rogan moved across the floor, opened the fridge, and looked inside.

Silence stretched.

I concentrated on the emails. Usually there would be at least one or two new cases in there, considering I hadn’t checked it for at least ten days, but there was nothing. Houston was waiting to see if we would pass the trials. If we failed, our business would take a serious hit and I wasn’t sure it would recover. Yet more pressure, because I clearly didn’t have enough of it in my life already.

An email from Bern. I may have something for you in the morning. Well, that wasn’t cryptic or anything.

An email from Rivera. Odd. Good evening, Ms. Baylor. You asked the hospital to notify you when Edward Sherwood awoke. He is awake. I escorted Rynda Sherwood to visit him this evening. House Sherwood has a new security chief and Edward Sherwood is under 24–7 guard.

House Sherwood stonewalled me again. Idiots. I typed a quick thank-you note.

Rogan climbed into bed next to me and sat cross-legged, his laptop in front of him. He had one of the mousse cups in his hand, and he’d spooned a small mountain of whipped cream on top of it.

“It’s not set yet,” I told him.

“I don’t care.”

His laptop showed a picture of a yellowed page, the kind that came from a notebook, covered in precise neat cursive.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

“My father’s notes,” Rogan said, spooning more mousse into his mouth. “He kept a file on every potential threat. This one is on Sturm. You said you couldn’t cook.”

“I can’t. I don’t have the time, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know how to cook some things.”

I nodded, scooted closer to him so we were touching, and went back to my emails. His fingertips brushed my back. He did it without looking away from his laptop. Just checking that I was still there.

This is what it would be like, I realized. We could come home to each other every night.

It didn’t have to be all blood and gore and fancy dinners. It could also be this, and this felt so good.