White Hot

“I don’t believe he cares,” Cornelius said.

“This would’ve never happened under his father. There are certain things that the head of a House simply does. Let me see what I can do. My voice may not be as loud as it once was, but people still listen to it. If you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.”

True. A sincere Prime who actually showed compassion.

“Thank you.”

The man got off on the twentieth floor.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Linus Duncan,” Cornelius said. “Very old, very powerful House. He used to be the Speaker of the Upper Chamber. The most powerful man in Houston. Until they drove him out.”

“Why?”

“Because he was honest and he tried to change the Assembly for the better,” Cornelius said.

It didn’t surprise me. Houses feared change like it was a rabid tiger.

The elevator chimed, announcing our floor. We stepped off and turned right. Near the middle of the long hallway, by an open door, three men stood together discussing something, all dark-haired, middle-aged, and wearing black robes with their hoods down. One of them was Matthias Forsberg. Of average height but with the broad, sturdy frame of an aging football player, Forsberg stood out. His shoulders were wide and heavy, his stance direct. He planted his feet as if he expected to be run over. His face, with dark eyes, wide eyebrows that angled down without any hint of an arch, and a hint of softness around the chin, didn’t match his body.

Cornelius sped up, heading toward the men. I chased after him. Forsberg raised his head, glancing in our direction. His expression changed from tense to alarmed. The two other men looked in our direction and moved to the other end of the hallway, leaving Forsberg alone.

“Harrison,” Forsberg said, looking like he just found some rotten potatoes in his pantry. “My condolences.”

“Did you order the death of my wife?” Cornelius asked. His voice rang out. People looked in our direction. Smart. Forsberg would have to respond now and it was clear he wasn’t used to backing down.

“Are you out of your mind?” Forsberg growled.

“Yes or no, Matthias.”

“No!”

Truth.

“Do you know who did?”

“Of course not.”

My magic buzzed, an angry invisible mosquito. Lie. I nodded.

“If I did, I’d take action.”

Lie.

“Was her death connected to the business of your house?”

“No.”

Lie.

Cornelius looked at me. I nodded again.

“Tell me who killed my wife,” Cornelius ground out through his teeth.

Argh. Wrong question.

“You’re delusional and grieving,” Forsberg said. His expression hardened. “This is the only reason you’re still breathing. I’m going to give you one chance to get out of this building . . .”

His gaze snagged on something behind me. His eyes opened wide and I saw fear ignite in their depths. It was so at odds with the bullheaded arrogance he projected, I almost did a double take.

I looked over my shoulder.

A tall man was striding from the far end of the hallway. He wore the black robe and it flared around him, the wings of a raven about to take flight. He walked like he owned the building and he’d spotted an intruder in his domain. Magic boiled around him, vicious and lethal, so potent I could feel it from thirty yards away. He wasn’t a man, he was an elemental force, a thunderstorm clad in black about to unleash its fury. People flattened themselves against the walls, trying to get out of his way. I saw his face and recoiled. Chiseled chin, strong nose, and blue eyes blazing with power under dark slashes of eyebrows.

Mad Rogan.

My heart hammered so fast; my chest was about to explode.

He was coming toward me.

Our stares connected. I clamped all my thoughts into a steel fist, trying to keep my reaction under control.

His expression softened and for a fraction of a second I saw him looking at me with a mix of surprise and relief. Then the gaze of those furious eyes fixed on Forsberg with predatory focus. I knew that expression. It said, “Murder.”

I whipped around. Panic drowned Forsberg’s face. Magic contracted around him, compressing in on itself like a spring coiling under pressure. The hallway around me stretched back as if marble and metal suddenly became elastic.

I shoved Cornelius out of the way.

The hallway compacted like an aluminum can flattened by pressure and suddenly I was airborne. I hurtled through the air, straight at Mad Rogan.

Fate threw us at each other. I could never tell Grandma.

I crashed into Rogan. Strong arms caught me. The impact spun us around, and I landed upright on the floor to the right of him. Before my feet touched the marble, Rogan hurled a handful of quarters in the air. The coins streaked at Forsberg, flattened bullets driven by Rogan’s power, dodging random people in the hallway as they shot toward their target.

The air around Forsberg shimmered. The coins collided with the shimmer and fell to the ground, bouncing from an invincible barrier. Forsberg blurred, landing twenty yards back from where he’d been.

“Shoot him,” Rogan said, his voice clipped.

“No gun.”

Forsberg looked scared to death. People who panicked didn’t think; they ran. I dashed toward the elevator. We had to beat him to the lobby.

Forsberg jumped straight up, blurred, and then fell through the floor. I caught myself on the corner of the short hallway leading to the elevator, slid on the marble floor, and mashed the button going down. Rogan was only a step behind me.

The elevator doors slid open and we rushed inside. I hit the button for the lobby. The door began to slide closed and Cornelius squeezed through the gap at the last moment, causing them to reopen. Rogan jerked the animal mage off his feet, slamming him against the elevator wall, his forearm pressed against the blond man’s throat. Cornelius groaned, his feet above the ground, all of his weight pushing his neck against Rogan’s forearm.

“Drop my client!” I barked.

Rogan pressed harder. Cornelius’ face turned red. I’d seen what Rogan could do with his bare hands to a person. If I didn’t pry Cornelius away from him, Rogan would crush his windpipe.

“Rogan! He’s a . . . he’s a civilian!”

Rogan stepped back as if I’d thrown a switch. Cornelius dropped to the floor, gulping air. Apparently I’d said the magic word.

“Try that again and I’ll shock you into oblivion,” I ground out.

The elevator doors opened. Twelfth floor. Rogan pushed the button, forcing the doors to close, and peered at Cornelius. “Is this my replacement?”

What? “I didn’t replace you!”

“Of course not. I’m irreplaceable.”

Cornelius finally managed to squeeze out a word. “Rogan? The Butcher of Merida? Mad Rogan?”

“Yes,” Rogan and I said in unison.

“Is this the R on the dress?” Cornelius’ eyes were wide.

Think of clouds, think of bunnies, don’t think about the wedding-gown pictures. Rogan claimed he wasn’t telepathic, but he could project images, which meant he could probably pick up impressions if I concentrated on things too much.

“Dress? What dress?” Rogan asked, honing in on the word like a shark sensing blood in the water.

“Never mind,” I told him. “Cornelius, not another word or I walk.”

Rogan’s eyes narrowed. He’d recognized the name. He was involved in this thing with Forsberg up to his elbows. Just my luck.

Number two above us blinked. Almost there.

Rogan tossed the coins in the air and the quarters hung around him motionless. His magic brushed past me, a raging, terrible beast. Shivers ran down my spine. Suddenly the past two months of normal life tore apart, like fragile paper, and I was right back next to Rogan, about to charge into a fight. And it felt right. It felt like I’d been sleepwalking and had suddenly woken up.

I had to get away from him as soon as I could. He was bad for me on every level.

“Alive!” I told him. “I need Forsberg alive.”

The doors chimed and opened. We burst into the lobby to a wall of shotguns pointed in our direction. Behind the security, Forsberg lay on the floor on his back. A puddle of red slowly spread from his head. His eyes were gone. In their place two blood-filled holes gaped at the ceiling.