“Of course. This is what I’m here for. It’s my function as your witness.” He grinned again. “Besides, things around you have a way of turning interesting. I do hate to be bored.”
We made it home a few minutes after 4:00 p.m. Mom was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Arabella sat at the kitchen table with her nose in her phone.
Mom saw Leon—he still looked a little green—and pinned me down with her stare. “What did you do?”
“I took him with me as backup,” I said.
“What happened?”
I made big eyes in Arabella’s direction. Mom refused to take the hint. “What happened?”
“Victoria Tremaine attacked us. She sent Dave Madero’s brother. And some people. I took care of Frank. Leon took care of the other people.”
There, that was nice and neutral.
Arabella got up and walked across the kitchen.
Mom opened the cabinet, pulled out the decanter filled with whiskey, and poured three shots into small shot glasses. “Are you okay?”
The intercom came on. “Leon killed somebody!” Arabella’s cheerful voice announced.
“I’m going to murder her,” I growled.
“Too late,” Mom said. “Brace yourselves.”
Doors opened and slammed shut inside the house. The Baylors had mobilized.
Mom put one shot glass in front of Leon and pushed the other toward me. “Drink.”
We drank. Liquid fire slid down my throat. Leon coughed.
Bern made it first. He tore into the kitchen, grabbed his brother by the shoulders, and shook him. “Are you okay?”
“He won’t be if you keep squeezing him like that,” Mom warned.
Catalina marched into the kitchen, her face outraged. “What happened?”
Grandma Frida came next. “Details! I want details!”
Arabella slunk back into the kitchen behind her.
I pointed my finger at her. “You’re dead.”
She shrugged.
“Will someone tell me the details?” Grandma Frida demanded.
“Ask Leon,” I told her.
Everyone looked at him. He gave an awkward one-shouldered shrug. “I couldn’t let them take Nevada.”
“Well?” Grandma Frida spun to me. “Is he as good as you?”
“Oh no. He’s better. Much, much better.” I took a USB stick out of my pocket. I made sure to get a copy of the footage from the hospital’s camera before I left. The hospital didn’t object. House business and all that. “Leon, do you want to let them see it?”
He thought about it. “Kurt said it might help to deal with it.”
I held up the USB stick. “We need a TV.”
We all stampeded into the living room, where I plugged the USB stick into the TV. The images of Leon and me walking filled the screen. The Vault vehicle charged into the parking lot. I paused the video.
“We got the Vault bus. It’s parked out back.”
Grandma Frida’s eyes lit up. “Good girl.”
“Press play!” Arabella ground out.
I pushed the button. On screen we spun around and ran for the door, Leon sprinting past me. Frank Madero popped into existence right in front of me. The family gasped.
On screen the shockers’ lightning looked like feathers. Fine white feathers that flickered into existence and licked Frank’s skin.
It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.
Frank dropped to his knees. I let him go. He collapsed facedown. I stumbled, groping for my gun. People were running toward us.
Leon dashed into the frame next to me, the Sig 210 in his hands. He raised it and fired. I thought it took only a second. It was more like two or maybe two and a half. He fired as fast as he could pull the trigger.
Eight people dropped as if cut. The rest turned around and fled for their lives.
Nobody said anything.
“One shot, one kill,” Mom said finally.
“You think he ranks around Notable, like your father?” Grandma Frida asked her.
Mom squinted at the recording. “That’s what, fifty meters between them?”
“He’s higher.” I got out my phone and showed Mom a picture of two of the bodies.
Her eyes widened. “Every single one?”
I nodded.
“What?” Catalina asked.
“He shot them all between the eyes,” Mom said. “Instant kill. He did it at a fifty-meter distance, rapid fire. He is at least Significant.”
Grandma Frida whistled.
Bern grabbed Leon and crushed him into what could’ve been an excited brotherly bear hug or a judo submission hold. It was hard to tell for sure.
“This is special, Leon,” Mom said. “You’re special.”
Leon turned red in the face.
“You’re choking him,” I told Bern.
Bernard let go.
“Are you going to register for trials?” Arabella asked.
“No,” Leon said.
“What the hell is wrong with this family?” Arabella waved her arms. “Why would you not register?”
“Because I don’t need to,” Leon said. “It’s better that I don’t.”
“Why?” my sister wailed.
“Kurt explained it to me.”
Mom looked at me.
“Ex–Navy SEAL,” I explained. “Rogan’s PTSD specialist.”
“Sometimes bad shit happens, and you have to protect the people you love,” Leon said. “It would be nice if you can do that and keep your hands clean, but life doesn’t work that way. Life is messy, and sometimes you must do what needs to be done to keep your family safe. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”
I’d have to thank Kurt.
“One day some other Prime will threaten our House, and when that day comes, I’ll kill him.”
What?
“I’ll do it quiet and clean, and nobody will ever know.” Leon smiled. “I’m going to be a dark horse, House Baylor’s secret. I’ll be the best assassin. A legend. They’ll never see me coming.”
I would kill Kurt. I would strangle him with my bare hands.
I stomped up the stairs to the second floor of Rogan’s HQ, where Heart and Bug waited for me. Napoleon saw my face and ran behind Bug’s chair to hide.
“Where is Kurt?” I growled.
Bug blinked. “I’m not sure I should tell you this information.”
“Bug!”
“Kurt is a valuable member of the team, and you have murder on your face.”
“What did he do?” Heart asked.
“He talked to Leon, and now my sixteen-year-old cousin has decided to be an assassin when he grows up.”
Bug pondered it. “Well, you have to admit it’s not a bad option for someone with his particular skill set.”
“Bug!”
“What else is he going to do? Competitive shooting?”
I looked for something to throw at him, but nothing was close.
“I doubt Kurt would suggest Leon become an assassin,” Heart said. “That’s not Kurt’s philosophy.”
“And, before you go on a warpath,” Bug added, “your dinner is in seventy-two minutes, so you’ll have to hunt Kurt down after your date with Garen.”
“It’s not a date.”
“Pardon me, your worship. I meant your business meeting in a romantic French bistro with a young single millionaire Prime for which you’re wearing a sexy pantsuit,” Bug said.
“I’m not wearing a sexy pantsuit, I’m wearing a run-away-fast-if-necessary pantsuit. For your information, I bought it at Macy’s, on sale, for two hundred dollars, because occasionally I have to do surveillance in the city and it makes me look like I’m on my way back to my cubicle. Garen Shaffer probably finds two hundred bucks when he empties loose change from his pockets.”
“Fine!” Bug raised his hands in the air. “I was wrong. What equipment are you carrying?”
“Why would I tell you that?”
“I just want to know if you’re packing
good stuff or one of those cheap-ass ten-frames-per-second garbage cameras.”
“I’m a PI. Surveillance is my bread and butter.” Dad had always stressed the importance of good equipment, which was why I updated ours every year. “I’ll transmit live feed to Bern.”
“But I want to watch.”
“You can watch with Bern.”
“But my screens are bigger.”
I ignored him. “Where is Rogan?”
“Somewhere on I-10,” Heart said.
“I thought he said he would take a jet to Austin.”
“He did. There is a hailstorm and the planes are grounded. He’s driving back,” Bug said.
I really wanted to see him before the date. “Okay.”
“What precautions are you taking?” Heart asked.
“I’m bringing Cornelius, and he’s bringing Bunny.”
“Who’s Bunny?” Heart asked.
“Doberman.” Bug raised his hands, right hand above, left below, fingers curved and touching, imitating opening and closing jaws. “Teeth.”
“Molly’s Pub is in the same plaza,” Heart said. “Three of our people will be there. One of them is an aegis. How will they know if something goes wrong?”
“If I need help, I’ll cover the camera with my finger and hold it for a second. Bern knows what it means.”
“Good,” Heart said. “Then we’re ready.”
“I still say my screens are bigger,” Bug muttered.
I walked into Bistro le Cep at five to six. The reviews described it as cozy, quaint, traditionally European, and they didn’t lie. White walls offering French-themed art; white ceiling, crossed by golden pine rafters; large windows. Elaborate pine shelves showcased dark wine bottles. Rows of tables, each covered with a red tablecloth, topped with white linen, and flanked by padded chairs, offered comfortable seating. The stagecoach lanterns glowed softly with intimate light. The busy streets of Houston faded. It was like stepping into a different world.
The restaurant was two-thirds full. Cornelius sat two tables down from the entrance, on the left. Bunny discreetly lay at his feet. Normally, getting a dog into any restaurant in Houston would be out of the question, unless it was a service animal, but people made exceptions for animal mages.
A manager smiled at me. “Good evening. Mr. Shaffer’s party?”
“Yes.”
“This way, please.”
He led me around the pine shelves to a different section of the restaurant. Garen sat at an out-of-the-way table, engrossed in his menu. He wore a grey suit that fit him like a glove. His blond hair had that slightly tousled look that happened when you casually dragged your hand through a thousand-dollar haircut. He held himself with a quiet, effortless self-assurance; there was nothing flashy about him. When Rogan walked into the room, his presence punched you. He emanated danger. Garen emanated . . . I wasn’t even sure what it was. Charm seemed too smarmy to describe it. You just knew that this was a man who was perfectly comfortable in his own skin and sure of his place in the world. He was always where he was supposed to be, he wasn’t easily rattled, and if he showed up to a formal event in jeans and a T-shirt, they would let him in without a pause. He would still look elegant, and everyone else would feel horribly overdressed.
He raised his head. Our stares connected. Garen smiled.
Wow.
I bet he would order in French.
Garen stood and held out my chair. The royal treatment. I smiled and sat.
“You came,” he said.
“I said I would.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
True. I took out my phone and put it on the table next to me. He glanced at it.
“Sorry,” I told him. “Work.” Also, the hidden camera in the side of the phone case now had an excellent view of him and sent live feed to Bern. It was a better camera than the one hidden behind the left lapel of my suit, but it was best to have the feed from both in case one of them decided to suddenly die.
“No worries.”
A waiter appeared, smiling, introduced himself, and brought complimentary toast and pâté. I ordered water. Garen did the same.
“Wine?” he asked.
“Your preference.”
He glanced at the wine list and murmured something to the waiter, who nodded and departed.
“I always feel uncomfortable ordering wine for the table,” Garen said.
True. “Why?”
“Because it’s so subjective. The taste of wine has very little to do with the price. Some people train their palate for years to become connoisseurs and some just want a delicious drink. I’ve been at a dinner where the host opened a five-thousand-dollar bottle of Riesling. It tasted like oak bark soaked in vinegar.”
I laughed.
“And the man looked straight at me while I tasted it. I knew I had to say something.”
“What did you say?”
Garen leaned forward, nodding. “Oh I lied through my teeth. I think I told him it was exquisite.”
Oh my, Mr. Wolf. What lovely eyes you have and delightful stories you tell. I can barely see the fangs. “One-word lies are the easiest.”
“Yes, they are.”
The drinks arrived. The waiter opened a bottle of white wine and poured some into the two glasses.
“Please,” Garen invited me.
The wine tasted clean and sweet. “I like it.”
I felt a light flick against my skin. Garen had truth-checked me. He was smiling.
The waiter filled our glasses and politely asked for the starter order. I went for the seared scallop.
“Make that two,” Garen said, and we were again alone.
He studied me, smart green eyes careful. “Let’s make a pact for tonight.”
“Mmm?”
“Let’s be honest with each other.”
“How honest?”
“Brutally. Ask me any question, and I’ll answer honestly. No shields, no attempt to block the probe. I ask the same in return.”
I swirled the wine in my glass. “That’s a dangerous game.”
“I realize that.”
“You won’t like my questions,” I said.
“I like to live on the edge.”
We faced off across the table, like two gunfighters, armed with glasses of wine instead of six-shooters.
“Go ahead,” he dared me.
“Have you or a member of your family ever lifted a hex with the purpose of finding the third piece of an artifact, which was located in the statue in the Bridge Park?”
I had considered that question carefully. That’s how the conspiracy showed itself the first time. They made a deal with a rogue Prime called Adam Pierce. Pierce wanted to burn Houston down, but he needed an artifact to amplify his power. The location of the artifact was a closely guarded secret, entrusted to the Emmens family. All members of that family, trusted with this knowledge, had a hex implanted in their minds to protect them from disclosing their secret. The members of the conspiracy had kidnapped the youngest member of the family and pried that knowledge out of his mind, despite the hex, the same way I had done with the oldest member of the family, except in my case he had volunteered to help me save Houston.
A truthseeker had cracked the hex in the younger Emmens, and I wanted to know if Garen was that truthseeker. Asking him about the Emmens family was useless. He may not have been told the name of the man whose mind the conspirators wanted unlocked. However, if Garen had anything to do with breaking the hex, he would know the location of the object.
“I don’t know what this is about, but that is oddly specific. No.”
True. Relief washed through me. Surprising. I didn’t realize that on some level, I liked him. I didn’t want him to be connected to the conspiracy.
He studied me, a hint of predatory anticipation in his eyes. Despite all his charm and disarming honesty, Garen was a Prime. “My turn. Are you really Victoria Tremaine’s granddaughter?”
“Yes.”
The waiter app
eared with our appetizers and asked for our orders.
“Red snapper,” I said.
“Medallion de Marcassin à l’aigre-doux.”
I won the bet. He did order in French.
The waiter departed.
“Let’s continue,” Garen said. “Your move.”
“What is the significance of a wavy line?”
“I don’t follow.”
“When you’re facing someone with hard mental defenses, and you want to loosen their will instead of bashing through it by brute force, you draw a wavy line inside the amplification circle. Why do people freak out when they see it?”
Garen stared at me for a second, picked up his glass, and gulped all of the wine in one swallow. “Have you done this?”
“Yes. Answer the question.”
“They freak out, because it’s a spell of House Tremaine. Nobody else does it.” He leaned forward, focused on me. “How do you determine the pattern of the waves?”
“You tailor it to the specific defenses of the person. By feel.”
“I knew it.” He slapped the table lightly. “I knew it. We’ve been trying to duplicate it for years. Will you show me?”
“Maybe. It’s your turn.”
He thought about it. “In the office, when I asked you the last question about me being an only child, did you know I was lying?”
“Yes.” I cut a small piece off my scallop. It was getting cold, and it looked delicious. It would be a shame to waste it.
He leaned back in his chair. His eyes were shining and it wasn’t all wine. “Your turn.”
“Why did you come here, Garen?”
He paused. “I came to find out if you were the real thing.”
“I know that. That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s a more complicated question.”
Our food appeared. The red snapper looked divine and smelled even better, but I barely noticed.
Garen waited until we were alone again. “As I said, I came to find out if you were the real thing. If I determined you lied or your magic wasn’t of high enough caliber, I would have been on a plane home already.”
“But you’re still here.”
“I am.”
He pondered the meat medallion on his plate.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Wild boar. Would you like to try?”
“No, thank you.”