White Hot: Chapter 10

The glamorous Houston elite was evacuating at full speed. Several wind mages took off into the night sky while circles ignited with blue fire as the teleporters popped out of existence, leaving their arcane footprints on the pavement. Helicopters hovered overhead, cars streamed out of the parking lot. Chaos reigned. I spent ten minutes in the pandemonium, looking for the ice mage, before Rogan practically dragged me away and loaded me into his armored SUV. Cornelius and Augustine both jumped in with us and the SUV took off.

I scrolled through the images on my phone. I had taken thirty-two pictures. Of those, three showed the mage as he smiled, turned, and looked away. I got three quarters of the face, a profile, and the back of his head. The shots were lousy, his features blurry, but it should be enough for Bug.

I tried to email the pictures to myself. No signal. Damn it.

“Give me your phone, please,” I asked Rogan.

He handed it to me. I zoomed in on the best shot of the mage, took a picture of my phone with Rogan’s, and handed it back. Just in case.

Rogan stared at the image and shook his head. I passed my phone to Augustine.

“He looks familiar.” Augustine frowned. “I’ve met him, but I can’t recall when or where.” He offered the phone to Cornelius.

“I don’t recognize him,” Cornelius murmured, his gaze boring into the mage. “Do you think he killed Nari?”

“We don’t know that,” I said, jumping in there before anybody else had a chance to say anything or Cornelius decided to leap out of the car and go back to look for the ice mage. “We know that an ice mage was involved. We know that this ice mage tried to kill me. We don’t know anything else.”

“But there must be a connection,” Cornelius insisted.

“There probably is one.” I was trying my best to sound calm and reasonable. “Remember, I promised you proof. We must be certain before we take action.”

Cornelius squeezed his hand into a fist. “He might still be back there.”

“We’ll get him,” I promised.

“We have his face,” Rogan said, his voice reassuring. “There is no place he can hide now.”

An hour later we piled through the doors of Rogan’s HQ, located in a large two-story building a street away from our warehouse. Judging by the open first floor, it might have been some sort of industrial building, but it was now filled with vehicles and people. We got out and crossed the floor to the left, climbed the stairs, and emerged onto the second floor, elevated high above the concrete expanse of the first. This space was wide open as well. A metal frame had been erected in the middle of it, holding nine computer screens and braids of cables. In front of the screen Bug sat in his chair, with Napoleon sleeping on what looked like a dog-sized padded throne of red fabric decorated with gold fleur-de-lis. He saw us, but decided our presence wasn’t incentive enough to bestir himself.

“I have a face for you,” I told Bug.

He exploded out of his chair. “Give!”

I handed him the phone.

He plugged a cable into it. My pictures filled the screen.

“Which one?”

I pointed at the mage.

Bug dropped into his chair. His fingers danced over the keyboard with the agility of a virtuoso pianist. Faces filled the nine screens, blinking in and out of existence.

Around the frame, couches and chairs waited in a ragged horseshoe. A huge industrial fridge stood against the left wall next to a counter that supported three coffeemakers, each with a full carafe. Coffee!

Augustine landed on the leather couch, his pose effortlessly elegant. “I have state-of-the-art facial recognition software at the Montgomery building.”

“Bug is faster,” Rogan and I said at the same time.

Cornelius stared at the screens. Rogan moved to stand by Bug’s shoulder and spoke to him in a low voice. Probably bringing him up to speed on our wonderful adventure.

I texted Bern. Everything okay?

I waited for more information. Nothing. Perfect Bern. Sometimes my cousin took things too literally. How are the kids, Mom, and Grandma? How are you?

“Found him!” Bug announced.

A portrait of a man in his thirties filled the screen. He seemed to be about five years or so older than Rogan. Dark blond hair cut short on the sides and fashionably longer on top of his head, brushed back from his face. A light stubble added a mild roughness to his jaw. His features were handsome and well formed, and he clearly didn’t bother with illusion, because he was smiling in the picture, the same quiet, sly smile I had seen an hour ago, and the crow’s feet in the corner of his light hazel eyes stood out. In the picture he wore a tuxedo and a bow tie.

“David Howling,” Bug said. “Of House Howling.”

“That can’t be right,” Augustine said. “House Howling is a fulgurkinetic house.”

Howlings didn’t freeze things. They shot lightning.

My phone chimed. A text message. I checked it. Grandma Frida.

“Is David Howling registered?” Cornelius asked.

“Average fulgurkinetic,” Bug reported. “Says here he tried three times to pass as Significant, but failed.”

“Run the genealogy,” Rogan said.

Bug played another melody on the keyboard. The middle screen blinked, presenting the family tree of House Howling, listing the current head of the House, spouses, and children.

“Run Diana Collins,” Rogan ordered.

House Collins appeared on the screen.

Bug’s voice was precise and loud. “Diana Collins is registered to the New York branch of House Collins as aquakinetic Prime with psychrokinetic specialization.”

Psychrokinetic stood for “ice mage.”

“A dark horse,” Augustine said, his perfect face wrinkling with disdain.

I’d heard of dark horses, mostly because a lot of romance and action fiction involving Primes centered around them. Primes divulged just enough information about their capabilities to maintain their status, often hiding their secondary talents. Dark horses carried it a step further. They didn’t register as Primes at all, pretending to be less than they were so they could do shady things to further their family’s interests. “So it’s a real thing?”

“Regrettably, yes,” Augustine said. “House Howling is a fulgurkinetic family. All of their enterprises are tied into it. Instead of registering an ice Prime who couldn’t really add anything to the family, they kept David on the back burner. He probably received a very specialized training.”

“He’s an assassin,” Rogan said, matter-of-fact. “A good one. Bug, I want surveillance on his house. Find his vehicle. I want to know where he is at all times.”

“Baranovsky was drinking champagne when he died,” I thought out loud. “Could Howling have frozen the liquid in his throat?”

“Very likely. He didn’t simply freeze it. If he’d done that, Baranovsky would’ve simply choked on an ice cube. He must’ve made the liquid into a flat sharp blade and slit the throat from inside out.” Rogan stared at the screen, a calculation taking place behind his eyes. “Forsberg’s brain showed signs of ice damage as well.”

“It’s an insidious practice,” Augustine continued, disgust plain in his voice. “And much more rare than the movies will lead you to believe. It requires a huge sacrifice on the part of the dark horse. They can never admit their Prime status or reap any of the benefits it affords. They are always viewed as lesser by their peers. I’ve known only two dark horses in my life and in both cases, it didn’t end well for them or their families.”

I kept thinking back to Baranovsky drinking. I could picture it in my head, him standing there with a champagne flute, watching . . . watching Rogan and Olivia Charles. Olivia Charles, who’d given me a mental push to flee. What was it Rogan said about manipulators? They were often registered as other specialties, a psionic being a favorite.

“Rogan, how is Olivia Charles registered?”

“A psionic Prime.” He clamped his mouth shut. His gaze gained a dangerous edge.

“What is it?” Augustine looked at him and at me.

“We’ve been played,” I said. “Olivia Charles created a diversion and while everyone focused on Rogan and her drama, David Howling cruised by Baranovsky and turned the champagne in his throat into a solid block of ice. They used us.”

“That’s a heavy accusation, Ms. Baylor,” Augustine said.

Funny how I was Nevada until I dared to accuse one of their own. “Nari and the other lawyers were killed by an ice mage and a manipulator working together. Rogan, if Olivia was a manipulator, would anyone know?”

“Olivia Charles is a fourth generation Prime.” Augustine leaned forward. “She is mean as a snake if she doesn’t like you, but her reputation is beyond any contestation.”

“Would anyone know?” I repeated, searching Rogan’s face for an answer.

“No,” he said, his voice grim. His face told me he was contemplating violence, and a lot of it.

“Whoa.” Augustine raised both hands. “Let’s back way, way up, past the line of insanity. We’re not talking about some loose cannon spoiled child like Pierce or a dark horse from a second marriage who is barely known in society. We’re talking about someone with a spotless record and vast connections in our community. My mother hates Olivia Charles, but when Olivia invites her to a luncheon, my mother makes an effort to attend. Before you even consider going after Olivia, you have to have bulletproof evidence of her guilt. If you videotape her stabbing someone with a butcher knife and then play it before the Assembly, half of the people will swear it was a fabrication and a quarter would claim she was drinking tea with them when the stabbing occurred. If you accuse her of anything without evidence, you will be crucified. I’ll have to disavow any connection with you. You will never land another client of any prominence.” He turned to Rogan. “And you will lose the last shreds of your standing.”

“I don’t care,” Rogan said.

“You should care.” Augustine slid his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “You have nothing. You have hypothesis and conjecture. This course of action won’t just affect you.”

Bug cleared his throat.

“This will affect me, our families, and even Rynda. This is the kind of accusation that must be made with exceptional care. Not only that, but it makes no sense for Olivia to be involved in this mess. She is at the pinnacle of her life. She has power, wealth, and influence. Why would she jeopardize it?”

Bug cleared his throat louder.

“What?” Rogan asked.

“Voilà.” Bug tapped the key. The front of Baranovsky’s mansion filled the middle screens, filmed through the haze of rain and bordered in dark wet leaves.

David Howling stood to the side, smoking, that familiar smile on his face. He seemed to be perpetually calm and happy.

A limo slid into place before the front staircase. The driver dashed to the passenger door, opened an umbrella, and swung the door open, holding the black umbrella above it. Olivia Charles stepped out, walked up the staircase, paused for a moment before security and went inside. Fifteen seconds later David flicked his half-finished cigarette aside and followed her in.

Augustine’s face turned white. “Dear God.”

And it proved nothing. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t say anything to each other. Everyone in the room knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Howling had waited outside to make sure she arrived. And we could do exactly nothing with that knowledge.

“He’s right,” I told Rogan. “We have no direct evidence.”

“Then we should get some,” he said. “We need that USB drive.”

He looked at Bug.

“How?” Bug asked. “Baranovsky has a DaemonEye security lock on his network. I would have to get the kid to crack it, but even if Bern opens all the cyber doors, it won’t do us any good. You can’t hack something that’s not connected to the Internet. You have to physically access the computer. Someone has to walk in, get the computer, or at least the hard drive, and walk out with it. Every security person Baranovsky employed is likely at that mansion right now, not to mention cops who are swarming within the place. That house is locked up tighter than a clam with lockjaw. By now the gap in the wall is probably repaired and if it isn’t, it’s guarded like Fort Knox.”

“How did you film that footage?” Cornelius said behind me.

I almost jumped. He’d been so quiet I’d forgotten he was there.

“A drone transmitting the feed from its camera.” Bug waved his arm. “A fifty-thousand-dollar drone, which, by the way, I lost because some asshole wind mage knocked it out of the sky just as I tried to recover it. The last thing it transmitted was a tree, up very close.”

“If I understand correctly, you don’t need the entire computer.” Cornelius rested his elbow on his bent knee and leaned his cheek on his fingers. “You just need the hard drive.”

“Yes.” Bug spread his arms. Napoleon decided that things had gotten exciting enough to warrant his input and barked once to underscore the point.

Rogan glanced at Augustine.

“I suppose I could try to impersonate one of the security personnel,” the illusion mage said. “Assuming we kidnap someone with access to Baranovsky’s inner sanctum. That will take time and research.”

“What about a short-range teleporter?” I asked. Teleportation was a last resort. It usually didn’t go well, but among the three of them they had to know at least one mage capable of it.

“Too risky,” Augustine said. “The place is crawling with security. And two-thirds of human teleportations, unless the teleporter is a Prime, end up with the teleported party resembling an undercooked meat loaf.”

“Find out who is securing the mansion,” Rogan said to Bug. “Let’s see if we can throw money at them.”

“I’ll need another drone,” Bug said.

“Ferrets,” Cornelius said.

All of us looked at him.

“Ferrets?” Augustine asked.

“It’s a domesticated form of European polecat,” Cornelius said. “Closely related to weasels, minks, and stoats.”

“I know what a ferret is,” Augustine said, obviously making a heroic effort to be patient. “I’m asking how ferrets would help us retrieve the computer.”

“I assume the mansion has laundry facilities?” Cornelius asked, a mild expression on his face.

“Yes,” Bug reported.

“Industrial dryers?”

“Most likely.”

“And you only require a hard drive from the computer?”

“Yes,” Bug said.

“In that case, I can extract those things for you provided you can attach a very small camera and a radio receiver to a ferret harness. I have to be able to talk to them and I must see what they see. I have several harnesses at Nevada’s warehouse, but my camera needs to be replaced and I haven’t gotten around to it.”

“You want to send in harnessed ferrets through a laundry vent?” Augustine clearly had difficulty coming to terms with that idea.

“Yes,” Cornelius said.

I blinked. “Wouldn’t the vent be secured by an alarm?”

The three of them looked at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted a second head.

“It doesn’t make sense to secure a laundry vent,” Rogan explained. “It’s too small and it opens into a dryer.”

“I’m curious, what are you picturing exactly?” Augustine asked. “A crisscrossing pattern of red laser beams and ferrets in harnesses slithering through it like ninjas?”

Ugh. He needed some of his own medicine. I dropped some cold into my voice. “Mr. Montgomery, contrary to what popular entertainment would like you to believe, laser beams are neither red nor visible under ordinary circumstances. I would think a man in charge of an investigative firm would know that.”

Augustine flushed. “I do know that, which is why I asked the question in the first place.”

I plowed on ahead. “Lasers wouldn’t make an optimal choice for securing a dryer vent anyway, because air carrying dryer lint would create false positives and would eventually clog the mirror system. For the same reason, heat sensors or movement sensors are out, but the exhaust could be secured by a pressure sensor. How paranoid is Baranovsky? I don’t want Cornelius’ ferrets to die. It would be painful for him.”

Cornelius reached over and squeezed my hand. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“I’m more paranoid than Baranovsky,” Rogan said. “My laundry vents aren’t secured. But I’d imagine there is a metal grate over them.”

“Does anybody else find this whole idea of a ferret heist mildly absurd?” Augustine looked around the room.

“Grates are not an issue,” Cornelius said.

“Can your animals handle screws?” Augustine asked.

Cornelius met his gaze. “Let’s assume that I spend as much time training my animals and honing my magic as you do practicing your illusions.”

“How confident are you that this will work?” I asked Cornelius.

He smiled at me.

“Let’s do it,” Rogan said.

Rogan owned a surveillance truck. From the outside, it looked like a medium-sized RV. Inside, it was a high-tech wall of computer screens, equipment, cables, and various monitors. I sat in my black leather seat, which could rotate 270 degrees when unlocked and came equipped with a seat belt and a hiney warmer, and watched the night-vision camera feed on the main screen as two ferrets and a slightly larger creature Cornelius called a Chinese ferret-badger loped their way through the brush. The Chinese ferret-badger was adorably fluffy and I got to pet him and feed him some raisins before Bug put him into a harness that supported a camera and a communicator. Two side monitors provided similar feeds from the ferrets. Cornelius and Bug sat in front of them, both wearing headsets with mikes.

“I can’t believe you put cameras on ferrets,” Augustine said on my left.

“You put cameras on drones,” Cornelius responded.

“Yes, but drones are supposed to have cameras. This is . . . unnatural.”

Cornelius spared him a smile.

On the screen the drizzle still soaked the ground. It was the kind of night when cold seeped into your bones. I leaned closer in my seat, grateful to be dry and warm. While they had put the harnesses together, I’d made a brief run home, where I switched out of my beautiful and thoroughly rain-soaked dress into a prosaic T-shirt and jeans. My hair was still put up, but the makeup had to go. I felt more like me, but there had been something magical about that dress, about being at the gala, and walking with Rogan up to the balcony. Something that reached back through my adulthood to an almost childlike belief in magic and wonder. When I thought back to this evening, I should’ve remembered Baranovsky, the man I had spoken to only minutes before he died, murdered in his own mansion. Instead I remembered the feel of Rogan’s fingers on mine and his face when he said, “I see a Prime.” He said it as if he’d dreaded it. It bothered me. It bothered me more than Baranovsky’s murder.

Was I getting used to death? I hoped not.

According to Bug and his surveillance staff, David Howling had never made it home. He had vanished off the map somewhere between Baranovsky’s mansion and his house in River Oaks. Neither Bug nor his two surveillance helpers were able to locate him. When Bug plucked Howling’s cell phone number out of some Internet ether and called it at Rogan’s directive, the number was no longer in service.

The brush ended. The three little beasts paused. In front of them, twenty yards of open ground stretched. Past it loomed the walls of the mansion’s northern wing, where according to Rogan’s informant, the laundry room was located. Some ornamental shrubs and rose bushes wound between the walls and the brush. The laundry vent was likely concealed behind the greenery.

Cornelius flicked a switch on his headset, his voice clear and friendly, as if he were speaking to a group of small children. “Look left.”

The cameras shifted as the beasts looked left in unison.

“Look right.”

The cameras obediently swung right. All clear.

“Run to the wall.”

The three beasties dashed across the open ground, under the rose bushes, and to the wall.

Cornelius concentrated, his gaze focused, his voice intimate and almost hypnotic. “Harsh scent. Yellow poison scent. Find it.”

“Poison scent?” Rogan asked.

He’d moved to stand next to me and suddenly I was acutely aware that he was standing only inches away. I wanted him to reach out and touch me. He didn’t.

“Bleach,” Bug said softly. “He had them smell paper towels soaked in bleach. The scent lingers on clothes even in the dryer.”

The beasties dashed left, rounded the corner, and stopped before a square foot-wide vent secured by a metal grate.

“Use the small tooth,” Cornelius intoned. “Open the burrow.”

“I’m in a Disney movie,” Augustine said, his face disgusted.

One of the ferrets reached over and pulled a tiny screwdriver out of the ferret-badger’s harness. The beast raised it up and put it into the screw. The other ferret squeezed it and the electric screwdriver whirred quietly, pulling the screw out. The screwdriver slipped. The ferret patiently repositioned it again.

Augustine blinked.

It took them almost five minutes, but finally the screws came loose and the three furry burglars hooked their claws into the grate and pulled it out.

“Balu, enter the burrow. Loki, enter. Hermes, enter.”

The badger squirmed into the vent, with the ferrets following it. Lint dust floated in the air as they moved. One of the ferrets sneezed adorably. Please don’t get killed, little beasties.

Cornelius’ burglars double-timed it through the air vent. Abruptly the metal tunnel ended in a T-section, with the perpendicular tunnel running left and right. They must’ve had more than one dryer attached to it.

“Loki, wait. Hermes, wait.”

The two ferrets obediently crouched down.

“Balu, charge.”

The badger shot forward and smacked into the T-section’s wall. The entire tunnel quaked. A dent bent the soft metal.

“Again.”

The beast rammed the wall ahead. The view from its camera turned, shaking. The tunnel sagged. The weight of the badger had strained the connection between the wall and the semi-rigid metal duct running to the dryers. A narrow gap formed between the duct and the length of the dryer vent.

“Open the hole,” Cornelius intoned. The ferrets hooked their claws into the gap.

Rogan watched, an odd expression on his face.

Three minutes later Loki, the lighter ferret, squirmed out of the hole and pulled off the clamp, disconnecting the duct.

Rogan lifted his cell to his ear and said quietly, “Margaret? Look into putting pressure sensors into our dryer vents . . . Yes. Dryer vents.”

Augustine was typing something on his phone, his face unreadable. Serves you right.

The burglars dashed into the house, navigating the vast mansion and following commands as Cornelius patiently talked them through their heist. Bug had been right. The place swarmed with security personnel and detectives. Once, just before the ferrets ducked behind a curtain, Hermes’ camera caught a glimpse of Lenora Jordan, the Harris County district attorney. In her late thirties, with medium brown skin and a mane of hair twisted into a careless bun, she strode through the house with a scowl on her face. Baranosvky’s murder was big enough news to drag her out of bed and she clearly wasn’t happy about any of it. A team of haggard-looking people in professional clothes trailed her, watching her every move. Most likely those were Baranovsky’s lawyers. He must’ve made provisions for his death.

Lenora Jordan was my hero. When I was growing up, I’d wanted to be just like her.

Slowly, foot by foot, the furry beasts made their progress into the depths of the house.

I was so tired. It’d been a long night. If I just closed my eyes for a moment, I’m sure nobody would mind . . .

Rogan’s hand skimmed my back as he leaned forward to glance at my face. “Coffee?”

I jerked awake. “Yes. Thank you.”

I should’ve said no. Ugh.

He stepped away and returned with coffee, cream already in it.

Augustine raised his eyebrows at him. “You really are trying.”

Rogan gave him a flat stare. Lesser men would’ve fled for their life, but Augustine was clearly made of sterner stuff.

“Congratulations, Nevada.” Augustine allowed himself a narrow smile. “I do hope you appreciate the full gravity of this momentous occurrence. Mad Rogan actually physically moved his body to bring you a cup of coffee instead of simply floating it to your lap. The manipulation is so blatant it’s painful to watch. Sadly for him, I’m still a better employer.”

Rogan paused by him. “If you need any pointers on how to properly treat a woman, I can give you a lesson later.”

“Please.” Augustine held up his hand. “Spare me. Do you honestly think that she is dumb enough to fall for that? What’s next? A picnic under the stars? Just how underhanded are you planning on being in your hiring process?”

Pot, kettle. “Thank you, Rogan,” I said. “The coffee is delicious.”

“You haven’t even tried it,” Augustine pointed out.

“The coffee is delicious,” I repeated and sipped. It tasted divine, probably because it had at least half a jar of sugar in it.

“We reached the computer,” Bug reported.

Baranovsky’s personal computer was a tower of alien design, complete with weird plastic scales. The ferrets dismantled it in under a minute, plucked the hard drive out, dropped it into a plastic baggie they pulled out of Hermes’ harness, and began the long trek back to the laundry. The coffee wore off somewhere between the first and second floor. I pulled my legs to me and tried to nestle deeper into the seat. I had spent too much magic today. I needed to learn to pace myself.

I hung on through the narrow escape through the staff rooms and the mad dash across the rain soaked forest. Finally, the screen showed the truck. Rogan opened the door and the wet beasts dashed inside and swarmed over Cornelius’ lap, chirping and screeching like there was no tomorrow.

Cornelius’ face lit up. He smiled, the first genuine smile I had ever seen on his face. It was a beautiful smile, filled with simple powerful joy. Loki thrust the drive in the baggie at him, hitting Cornelius in the face with it. The animal mage took the drive, handed it to Bug, and petted the furry beasts. I exhaled. Something had gone right. I was sure we would pay for it later, but for now, I could sit here and just watch Cornelius with his animals.

Soon the beasts calmed down, the ferrets overjoyed at offerings of cooked chicken, while the ferret-badger munched on plums. Cornelius slumped in his seat, exhausted.

“That was incredible,” I told him.

“Thank you. The biggest problem is keeping the ferrets on task. They are like hyperactive toddlers.”

“Found it,” Bug announced.

The screen ignited, showing a nighttime recording of a man in a light trench coat exiting a high-rise. A taller man in a suit followed him closely. A bodyguard.

The angle of the video was much too low for a street surveillance camera. Somebody was recording it from a car. I’d done it hundreds of times and my videos looked just like that.

The bodyguard and the man waited for a moment. A car pulled around the corner and the headlights illuminated the bodyguard and the man in the trench coat. Breath caught in my throat. Senator Garza.

The car slid to a smooth stop. The bodyguard opened the door.

Lightning ripped from the corner of the screen, its feathery tendrils clutching the bodyguard, Senator Garza, and the vehicle and binding them into a single glowing whole. The lightning burned and burned, the two men jerking in its lethal embrace. The front of the car melted. Fire burst from the rear, popping the tires.

The lightning blinked and came back again. Slowly, shakily, the camera panned left. A lone man stood on the street, older, dark-haired, wearing a business suit, his hands raised in a trademark mage pose, arms bent at the elbow, palms up. The camera zoomed in on his face. His features were slack, his expression almost serene, but his eyes furious, churning with the pain and despair of a man not in control of his own body.

The lightning died. The camera panned back. The car burned, a charred wreck. Garza and the bodyguard sprawled on the sidewalk, their bodies smoking.

The view switched back to the man. He stared at the two bodies, a horrified expression on his face, then turned and fled.

“I know him,” Augustine said, his voice sharp. “It’s . . .”

“Richard Howling,” Rogan said. “Controlled by Olivia Charles. House Howling killed Senator Garza.”

It was obvious now, and putting together the pieces seemed like an afterthought. I did it anyway, just so I didn’t miss anything.

“For some unknown reason, Olivia Charles wanted Senator Garza dead. Most likely, he stumbled onto their scheme and became a threat. They needed to take him out and do it in a way that wouldn’t come back to them.”

“So they kill two birds with one stone,” Augustine said. “Olivia used her magic on Richard Howling, forcing him to kill Garza, which eliminates the threat and potentially implicates Richard Howling.”

“But why use Richard Howling?” Cornelius asked. “If she could impose her will on Howling, she could’ve taken control of Garza’s bodyguards.”

“It must’ve been a concession to David,” Rogan said. “It’s unlikely that this is the first time he killed for them.”

Augustine nodded. “Richard’s sister is married to a different House. With Richard out of the picture, David becomes the only viable choice as the head of the Howling House. Like I said, dark horses never turn out well. They tend to hate their handlers.”

“Everything was going well,” I continued. “Except Olivia and David didn’t know that Forsberg had Garza under surveillance. When Forsberg realized what was on the recording, he tried to use it to his advantage. He turned it over to his legal team with instructions to make a deal either with Garza’s people, with Howling, or with someone else. Olivia found out, and she and David Howling killed everyone involved to keep the recording from getting out. Why would Forsberg have Garza followed?”

“Because Forsberg was a Steward,” Rogan said. “There are a number of factions within the Assembly, but the two largest are the Civil Majority and the Stewards. The Stewards are pro-mage and the Civil Majority is pro-people.”

“That’s an oversimplification,” Augustine said. “The Stewards see themselves and the Houses as the primary guiding force of human society. They reject the current democratic model and advocate for greater power and influence of the Houses. Simply put, they want to rule. The Civil Majority takes its root from the quote by Johanna Hemlock, a nineteenth-century philosopher and Prime. The Civil Majority seeks to limit House involvement in politics.”

“What’s the quote?” I asked.

“In a country ruled by a civil majority even the smallest minority enjoys greater protection than a majority living in a country where power is hoarded by select few,” Cornelius said.

“That sounds almost altruistic,” I said. “Don’t take it the wrong way, but Houses are not known for giving up power.”

Augustine sighed. “No, it’s not altruism. It’s self-interest. Our policy of noninvolvement has been working really well so far. We’re wealthy and secure, and we have a lot to lose. Garza was the darling of the Civil Majority. Matthias Forsberg was an active member of the Stewards. The Stewards likely conspired to torpedo Garza’s rise to power, so Forsberg must’ve put him under surveillance, hoping for some dirt from which the Stewards could’ve manufactured a scandal.”

I rubbed my face, trying to brush the drowsiness off.

“So Olivia and her people obtained the recording,” Rogan said, “and now it’s an unexpected bonus. What do they do with it?”

“Blackmail is an obvious choice,” Augustine said. “Howling controls the Moderates, the third-largest faction within the Assembly. This might be about Assembly elections.”

“No.” Rogan pushed from his seat and began stalking back and forth like a caged tiger. “These people want destabilization. Chaos. The surveillance recording wasn’t supposed to exist, but it does and they have a copy of it. If we hide the recording and they choose to sit on their copy, Richard Howling becomes their puppet. If we forward the recording to Lenora, she will have to arrest Richard Howling. There would be a public outcry over Garza being murdered by a head of a House. David still gets what he wants. If they release their copy ahead of us, David again gets his House and the DA’s office will look incompetent. There will be a huge wave of public outrage.”

“Doesn’t matter what we do, they win,” Augustine said. “This isn’t just usual House politics. This feels like a seismic shift within the power structure, one I’m not sure we have the combined power to oppose. Rogan, are we on the wrong side of this?”

Rogan pivoted to him. “They murdered civilians and nearly demolished downtown, which would’ve killed thousands more. They will never be the right side. I intend to win this war.”

“I know that.” Augustine’s face was tired. “I just wonder if history will view us as heroes or villains.”

“Depends on who writes it,” I told him. “We have to take it to Lenora.”

Rogan studied me. “Why?”

He knew perfectly well why. “You said yourself, these people are interested in chaos. You can’t create chaos unless you rile up the public. They will release the video, they will do it somewhere it can’t be contained—like the social networks—and they will stoke the outrage. It will look like the DA’s office deliberately hid the fact that a beloved senator and champion of the people was murdered by a Prime. I don’t understand why they haven’t released it already.”

“They’re waiting for the right moment,” Rogan said.

“And that’s exactly why the more time Lenora has with the video, the better.”

“We’ll talk to Lenora’s office in the morning,” Rogan said. “I’ll need time to pull together paperwork.”

He knew I was right so why the hell was he stalling?

“Are you going to apply for a Verona Exception?” Augustine said, a calculating look in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“You will require the cooperation of House Harrison.” Augustine turned to Cornelius.

“What is the Verona Exception?” I could look it up on my phone but I was too tired.

“It’s named after the Capulet and Montague feud,” Cornelius explained. “Romeo and Juliet begins with the Prince of Verona issuing an ultimatum to both families promising to put to death the next person who rekindles the feud. Then he walks off stage and washes his hands of it until their actions force him to return.”

“A Verona Exception means filing a claim against House Howling with the DA’s office,” Rogan said. “Troy is my employee and so are you by virtue of my agreement with Cornelius. Howling attacked you both, made no effort to offer any reparations, and can’t be reached by normal means.”

“But you don’t know that.” My brain was so slow and tired, and when I pushed it to make rational thoughts, it threatened to collapse. “You haven’t called the head of his House.”

“I’ll call Richard in the morning,” Rogan said. “He’ll disavow any knowledge of the incident. He doesn’t want to be involved, which is why he made David into a dark horse in the first place.”

“A Verona Exception effectively states that this now becomes a matter of open warfare among specific members of these three Houses,” Augustine said. “By granting the Verona Exception, the DA’s office will acknowledge that enough evidence exists to warrant retribution from House Rogan and House Harrison and empower them to enact this retribution, provided they don’t demonstrate gross disregard for civilian welfare.”

“So it allows them to wash their hands of it and let us fight it out?” I asked.

“Yes,” Rogan said.

It made sense. The DA’s office had some magic users on staff, of whom Lenora Jordan was the most dangerous, but if they got involved every time two Primes fought, the result would be catastrophic for police personnel.

“It’s standard procedure,” Rogan said. “The DA gets involved when the safety of the public is at stake. I’ll need a sworn affidavit from you and dispensation from House Harrison stating that they allow Cornelius to engage.”

“That may be a problem,” Cornelius said quietly. “We have a small House. We act cautiously and we don’t get involved. My parents maintained this policy for years and now my sister preserves it.”

The same sister who had sent a card and some flowers when she learned her youngest brother’s wife had been murdered.

“I’ll speak to her tomorrow,” Cornelius said.

Tomorrow might be too late. If that video hit the Internet, there would be riots. I didn’t almost die about ten times trying to save Houston from being burned only to see it tear itself apart.

I turned to Bug. “Can I have a copy of the video, please?”

He glanced at Rogan.

I pretended to sigh. “This is getting tiresome. Rogan and my employer signed a contract, and that contract goes both ways. If we have to share evidence with you, you have to share evidence with us, especially since my employer obtained it. I would like a copy of the video, please. Email would be great.”

“Do as she says,” Rogan said. He was smiling. I had no idea what was so funny.

My phone chimed announcing a new email.

“Thank you.”

“Take your time, Cornelius,” Rogan said. “Like I said, paperwork takes time and Lenora may not even see us tomorrow considering the Baranovsky mess. This is a delicate matter.”

“If my sister refuses, I’ll proceed on my own, but our case would be stronger with us both.”

I got up. “Where is the bathroom?”

Rogan pointed to a door in the far wall.

“Thank you.”

I got up, walked into the bathroom, and shut the door behind me. Was there conflict of interest? I had promised Cornelius that I would give him the name of his wife’s murderer, but I had made it abundantly clear that I wouldn’t kill that person for him. Cornelius’ agreement with Rogan technically had nothing to do with me. It only specified mutual cooperation and bound Rogan’s hands.

No, there was no conflict of interest. I was in possession of a video showing the murder of two citizens. It was my obligation under the law to report it. I texted Bern. This is very important. I’m going to email you something. Can you find a way to send it to Lenora Jordan so it won’t be traced back to us?

No answer. It was three in the morning.

I’m sorry to wake you, but this is really important. Please wake up. If I blew up his phone, the beeps would wake him up.

A reply popped onto the screen. I’m up. On it. Are you okay?

I exhaled. He would find a way to do it.

I put my phone away and looked at myself in the mirror. There were bags under my eyes and they weren’t Prada. I was so tired all of a sudden, I could barely stand. I had to get out of this bathroom, because the floor was beginning to look nice and inviting.

I washed my hands, came out, and sat on the couch. They were still talking about something, but I could no longer follow. My eyes were closing. I tried so hard to keep them open, but someone had attached weights to my eyelids. Augustine said something I couldn’t quite hear. Rogan answered and then the world turned soft, warm, and dark, and I sank into the welcoming blackness.