White Hot (Hidden Legacy 2)

“What are you doing here?” Rogan asked, his voice suffused with menace.

“What are you doing here?” Augustine snapped, his gaze fixed on Rogan.

“Shhh!” I hissed. “Into the office, before people see us.” My mother had stopped coming into the office when I formally took on the leading role in our firm. I didn’t care, but she considered it to be my professional domain.

I herded everyone in and shut the door behind me.

“Ms. Baylor . . .” Augustine pushed his glasses up his nose.

Arabella snapped a picture of Augustine.

“Stop that,” Augustine and I said at the same time.

“Augustine, don’t tell my sister what to do. Arabella, stop it.”

“Why do you even associate with him?” Augustine pointed his hand at Rogan. “Was your last adventure not enough?”

Most people, even Primes, gave Rogan a wide berth. Augustine met him head on. He and Rogan had gone to college together and at one point they’d been friends, but now they mostly snarled at each other. The last time they’d met in my office, they nearly destroyed it in their pissing contest. If they tried that again, they would sorely regret it.

Leon slipped into the office, a slender shadow. Great, more witnesses if anything went wrong.

Augustine was waiting for my answer.

“I’m associating with Mr. Rogan because it’s in the best interests of my client—the one you sent to me. They have signed a professional agreement, and I have to abide by its terms.” That sounded a lot better than “because he makes me feel safe and every time I think about kissing him, I feel a little electric thrill.”

“Mr. Montgomery, was there a point to your visit or did you just come here to critique my choice of professional partners?”

“You know perfectly well why I’m here. I warned you it was a terrible idea and I was right.”

I took a deep breath. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Augustine blinked. “Don’t any of you watch the news?”

I tapped my keyboard to get my PC to wake up. “What am I looking for?”

“Amy Madrid, press conference.”

A dozen links popped up. I clicked the first one. An older woman held seven-year-old Amy in her arms. A man stood next to her, hugging them both. Amy looked like a deer in the headlights.

I smiled.

“Fast forward to the nine-minute and thirty-seven-second mark.”

I did.

“. . . finally found . . .” some reporter was saying.

“It was the Lady in Green,” Amy’s mother said, the words bursting out of her. “They told me. She made him tell her where our daughter was. We love you. Thank you, thank you for saving our daughter. We’ll never forget. Eres una santa . . .”

The mike died. A man in a suit clamped his hand over it and called out, “That is all for today.”

“You?” Rogan asked, his expression resigned.

“She would’ve died,” I told him.

Rogan turned to Augustine. “And you helped her do this? How many lunchtime martinis did you have before it seemed like a good idea?”

Augustine recoiled in outrage. “I tried to talk her out of it. She wanted to just walk into the police station. I helped her do it as anonymously and secretly as possible.”

Rogan crossed his arms. “Someone told that woman exactly what took place. The video has two million views already. Now she is a damned urban legend. If that’s your definition of secret, you need to get your head examined.”

“Her face and her entire body was obscured. Anyway, I didn’t come here to be insulted.” He turned to me. “I came here to warn you, just like I did before. This act will have consequences, ones you’re likely unable to anticipate. Make your preparations.”

Sure, let me get right on that. “If I can’t anticipate the consequences, how can I prepare for them?”

“That’s for you to figure out.” Augustine turned to leave.

“Wait,” Rogan said, a speculative look on his face. “I’d like to show you something.”

Augustine grimaced. “Is it work related at least?”

“Yes. Nevada, may we enter the motor pool?”

“Follow me. Quietly, please. I don’t want to upset my mother.” I opened the door and checked the hallway. Clear.

“Why would your mother be upset that I’m here?” Augustine asked.

“Think about it,” I said. “It will come to you.”

We crossed the hallway and I opened the door to the motor pool.

“Is this about that nonsense of me being a terrible person?” Augustine asked.

Rogan strode through the motor pool, heading for the Range Rover parked in the middle and watched over by a Hispanic woman.

Augustine squinted at the two track vehicles—a tank and a mobile flamethrower. “What exactly does your grandmother do?”

“She tinkers,” I told him.

Augustine opened his mouth to say something else, saw the mangled Range Rover, and closed his mouth.

Rogan walked up to the stretcher covered with a dark brown tarp they must’ve stolen from Grandma Frida and nodded to the woman. “Thank you, Tiana. Take a break.”

“Yes, Major.” Tiana trotted outside.

Rogan pulled the tarp, revealing the illusion mage’s face. “Do you know this asshole?”

Leon and Arabella climbed up on the nearest track vehicle to get a better view.

Augustine grimaced. “Yes. I do know this asshole. Who did he go after?”

“Me,” I said.

“Did he look something like this?” Augustine took off his glasses. His flesh boiled. He expanded, growing to eight feet. Enormous leathery wings thrust out from his shoulders, issuing a challenge. Muscle sheathed his tree-trunk legs, covered in mottled python scales. Hooves formed over his feet. Carved arms stretched forward, armed with razor sharp talons. The horrible face stared at me with ruby red eyes, dripping fire onto the cheeks. A mane of bright roiling flames fell onto his shoulders and back.

“Holy crap!” Leon almost fell off his perch.

Arabella laughed. I threw her a warning glance. Don’t you do it. The last thing we needed was for her to show off.

The demon flexed his colossal shoulders. I could feel the heat of the fire. I smelled it. How was that even possible? The other guy’s illusion had looked real. This felt real. I swallowed.

“Yes, he looked like that. Except he was a foot shorter and there were no flames. He had a hood.”

“Dilettante,” the demon said in Augustine’s voice. “Living fire takes concentration.”

The demon deflated in a rush, snapping back into Augustine. He slid his glasses back on. “Philip McRaven. Also known as Azazel, mostly because he attempted to get everyone he ever worked with to call him that. He cost me a great deal of money.”

“How?” I asked.

“He was a Significant, related to the San Antonio McRavens. They excised him twelve years ago for various offenses and when I met him, he was working as a free agent. He advertised himself as a decent tracker. We were looking to expand our staff and I can always find use for a good illusion mage, especially one with a secondary talent. In addition to being an illusion mage, he was also an upper-range Average psionic.”

That explained the panic.

“I put him on a skip trace. One of the Houses had a runaway spouse who married into the House and six months later took off.”

“Took the good silver?” I asked.

“Nothing so pedestrian. He made his getaway in a California Spyder.”

“Good taste,” Rogan said.

I glanced at him.

“It’s a 1961 Ferrari. Only fifty-three ever made,” Rogan explained.

“The last one to come on the market sold for seven million,” Augustine said, his voice dry. “The man was a gambler who used to frequent Vegas. A relatively easy job. McRaven was to find him and call in the local team so we could deliver him and the car back to his heartbroken wife. McRaven found the runaway, put on his demon routine, and then choked the man to death. To add insult to injury, the thief voided his bowels while still in the car.”