Burn for Me: A Hidden Legacy Novel (20 page)

I hadn’t even realized how large he was. Because all those suits streamlined him and his proportions were so well balanced, he looked almost normal-sized. But now, as he sat in my kitchen chair, dwarfing it, there was no way to ignore it. The sheer physical power of him was overwhelming. If he grabbed hold of me, he could crush me. But I didn’t care. I could look at him all night. I wouldn’t go to sleep. I wouldn’t need to rest. I could just sit there and stare at him. And if I looked long enough, I’d throw caution to the wind, reach out, and slide my hand over that powerful muscle. I would feel the strength in his shoulders. I would kiss . . .

And that was about enough of that.

Underneath all of that masculine, harsh beauty was cold, the kind of cold that could stab a helpless man with a knife, feel the tip of it scrape the bone, and do it again and again and not be bothered by it. That cold scared me. Mad Rogan, unlike other people, rarely lied. I didn’t know if it was because he knew I would call him on it or if it was simply his way. When he said he would kill you, he meant it. He didn’t make threats or promises, he stated facts, and when he wanted something, he’d do whatever he had to do to get it.

I opened the med kit and pulled out gauze and medical tape.

The fire department was gone, having drowned the sad remains of the Range Rover in fire-retardant foam. It was almost surreal how quickly their questions had stopped after Rogan had given them his name. My mother insisted on staying in the crow’s nest she and my Grandmother had installed while I’d gone to talk to Bug. The kids had gone to bed. Grandma Frida had too. One of Mad Rogan’s men had come to personally take responsibility for failing to prevent the explosion. When Arabella was about two or three, she didn’t like to be in trouble. She didn’t want anyone to be mad at her, and the suspense of waiting until the exact nature of the punishment was decided always proved too much for her, so when she would do something bad, she would announce, “I’m going to punish myself!” and march off to her room to be grounded. I saw that precise look on the man’s face as he stared at Mad Rogan in quiet desperation. He would totally punish himself if he could.

He was gone now, and the warehouse had fallen quiet.

I crouched to take a better look at Mad Rogan’s so-called bandage. “I’m going to pull it off now.”

“I’ll try not to cry.”

I rolled my eyes, sighed, and yanked the duct tape off. He winced. A shallow gash cut across his ribs on the right side, more of a scrape than a deep cut, but it was three inches long, and it had bled. At least it wasn’t a gaping wound, so we could get away without stitches. I got the saline solution and clean rags.

“Sorry about your car.” I squirted the saline solution into the gash and blotted it.

“We agreed on full disclosure,” he said. “When were you going to tell me that Pierce is obsessed with you?”

“He isn’t obsessed with me.”

“He called you to let you know he was starting his fireworks today. He claims he’s in lust. Then he texted you to make sure you saw him blow up my car. That’s twice he notified you before he did anything he views as impressive.”

I smeared antibiotic ointment on the cut and placed a gauze pad over it. “Adam is a flake. He’s impulsive and he likes people to reassure him he is cool and awesome. I’m a young woman, I’m attractive, and I indicated that I wasn’t impressed by his shenanigans.” I began to tape the cut. “He discussed bringing me home with him to meet his mother just so he could see the look on her face. He got a giggle out of it. It’s not obsession, it’s . . . passing fancy, or whatever people call it.”

“These are things I need to know,” he said. “I can use this. If I’d known this, I would’ve handled today differently.”

“Funny how it’s always ‘I’ with you. It’s never ‘we.’” I taped the other side of the gash.

“What did you do that would make him infatuated? Did you kiss? Did you hold hands?”

His voice had taken on a distant tone, but there was a slight edge of heat to it.

“I gave him a peck on the cheek. It wasn’t sexual. He was trying to get me to run away with him, and I didn’t want to rebuff him so hard that he’d slam the door shut. I still have to bring him in.”

“Then why is he infatuated?”

“I don’t know why,” I said, exasperated. “Probably because I’m chasing him and I said no. He can’t comprehend that I’m chasing him because MII will throw my family out on the street. His House has been on top forever and he can’t even picture someone doing that to them, let alone try to understand what it would be like. He probably thinks that I’m pursuing him because I’m secretly fascinated with the glittering jewel that he is.”

Oops. Said a little too much. I didn’t really want Rogan to know that Montgomery held us by our throat. There was no telling what he would do with that information. I straightened. “Look, right now there are two people in this kitchen. One is an overindulged, filthy-rich Prime, and the other is me. You have more in common with Adam than I do. Why don’t you tell me why he’s doing things?”

Mad Rogan looked at me, his eyes clear and hard. “I’m nothing like him.”

On that we could agree. Rogan was nothing like Pierce. Adam was a teenager in a man’s body. Rogan was a man, calculating, powerful, and stubborn.

Bern walked into the kitchen at a near run and stopped. I realized that I was standing about two inches from a half-naked Mad Rogan, who was looking up at me.

“Should I come back later?” Bern asked.

“No,” I said, stepping away from Mad Rogan. “He was interrogating me while I patched him up, but we’re finished.”

Mad Rogan glanced down at his side. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bern put a laptop on the table. “I found it.”

On the laptop, a video feed played an image recorded with the regular camera at the front door. The time stamp said 20:26. Twenty-six minutes after eight. It had to be just a few moments after we arrived.

A pair of teenagers came skating down the street on their boards, one in a blue shirt and one in black. They looked like typical Houston kids: dark hair, tan, about fourteen or fifteen. They shot by the Range Rover and kept going. The clip stopped with the kid in a black shirt holding a cell phone to his ear as he rolled off.

Bern clicked the keys. The image rewound in slow motion, and I saw the kid in blue bend ever so slightly as he jumped over the curb and toss a small object under the Range Rover.

“Is that . . . ?”

“It’s a bomb,” Bern confirmed. “He must’ve remotely detonated it.”

“He used children to place a bomb?”

“Yes,” Bern confirmed.

“Children?” My mind couldn’t quite wrap around it.

“And one of them called him to report.” Mad Rogan’s eyes iced over.

I sank into a chair. “What if it had detonated early? Who hands a bomb to kids? And for what? To make a lousy point?”

Mad Rogan tapped his phone. “Diego? He used children. Yes. No. Just let me know.”

He hung up.

Two young boys had skated by our house, holding a bomb. What if one of them had fallen? What if someone had been in the car? What if one of us had gone to the mailbox? Then we would have had more dead bodies. The death count for today would have been more than six. Six was more than enough, especially because three of those six deaths happened because of me.

My chest hurt. I killed people today. I took their lives. They would’ve taken mine, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter right now. My grandmother barely survived. My house had almost been burned to the ground, then two children threw a bomb under a car parked next to it. It all crashed down on me like an avalanche.

“Are you alright?” Mad Rogan focused on me.

“No,” I said.

Bern was looking at me too. “I can make tea,” he said. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.” I turned to Mad Rogan. He was a Prime, and right now we couldn’t afford to pass up on whatever protection he could offer. “Can you do any magic at all, or are you completely dry?”

“It’s coming back,” he said. “I’m not helpless.”

“Can you stay the night?” I asked.

“I can,” he said.

“And if Pierce shows up or something happens . . .”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

True. He meant it.

“Thank you,” I told him. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”

I left the kitchen and went to my room, almost running. I closed the door, sat on the bed, and pulled my knees to my chest. There was a big, gaping hole inside me. It was growing bigger, and I didn’t know how to close it.

A knock sounded on my door. It was probably my mother. For a moment I considered pretending that I didn’t hear her. But I wanted her to come in. I wanted her to hug me and tell me everything would be okay. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” my mother called.

“It’s open.”

My mother walked in carrying a tablet. She was moving slower than usual. Her leg was really hurting and I felt it because she climbed the stairs. She sat beside me on the bed and swiped her hand across the tablet. A video clip came on. It had been taken with someone’s phone. On-screen, Adam Pierce, his phantom spikes and claws glowing, belched fire. The side of the tower where Rogan and I had our little adventure loomed on the right.

The front entrance of the tower blew out with an ear-splitting thunder. The building shook. A man gasped, “Holy shit!”

The video switched to a view of a hand. Whoever had been filming had grabbed his phone and hightailed it out of there.

“Were you inside?” Mom asked.

I nodded. “Adam was a diversion. While he was spitting fire, a team went into this building to retrieve some sort of trinket hidden in the wall. We stopped them.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom asked.

I shook my head.

“Can I help?” she asked softly. “Can I do anything?”

I shook my head and leaned against her. She put her arm around me. I wouldn’t cry. I was twenty-five years old. I would not cry.

“Rogan’s people are analyzing the jewelry we found,” I said, my voice sounding dull. “I sent a picture of it to Bern. He’s looking too. There is something really big and nasty going on, Mom. I feel like I’m on the edge of it. It scares me. I scared myself today.”

“You’re doing what needs to be done,” Mom said and hugged me to her. “Remember the rules: we have to be able to look ourselves in the mirror. Sometimes that means doing terrible things because there is no other choice. Are you doing the right thing?”

“I think so. It’s just spun out of control so fast. Pierce was willing to burn down a building to get that thing. He gave a bomb to a kid Leon’s age. Who does that?”

“Someone who needs to be stopped.”

“I keep thinking, if MII didn’t get involved and call me into their office, this would be happening to someone else. We would be watching all this on TV and going, ‘Oh my God, isn’t that crazy?’”

“You can’t go there,” Mom said. “That’s how you’ll drive yourself nuts. Trust me on this: wondering, What if this didn’t happen? never helped anybody. It just drowns you in self-pity and makes you less alert. There is no backing out now. Nevada, view it as a job. As something you have to do. Get the job done and come home.”

“I think Rogan is using me as bait,” I said.

“Use him back,” Mom said. “Throw him at Pierce and let him take him down.”

“What if he kills Pierce?”

“Bigger problem if Pierce kills him,” Mom said. “But if he kills Pierce, it becomes a matter between House Pierce and House Rogan. Let them sort it out. Your primary objective here is to survive. Then to bring Pierce in, if possible.”

I rested my head on her shoulder. “I’m going to need more ammo.”

“How was the Ruger?” my mother asked softly. She’d figured it out.

“I hit my target,” I told her.

I
awoke early. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the sky had turned a pearly, pale color. I peeled Band-Aids off my face and arm, shook a few drops of lavandin and rose geranium into the oil warmer, lit a candle under it, and took a long shower. I was still clean, but a shower usually made me feel better. I stood under the cascade of hot water, hoping to wash away the remnants of yesterday. I’d dreamed of shooting people. In my dreams I killed them again and again, each bullet punching their heads in slow motion, the blood blossoming like a revolting red flower. It hadn’t been like that at all. The whole firefight had probably taken three or four minutes, if that. In the dream, my gun had sounded like thunder. In the lobby, it had sounded dry, like a firecracker. Boom-boom. A life ended. Boom-boom. Another one down.

I let the water run over me and tried to figure out how my mother survived it. How could she look through the scope, squeeze the trigger, and end someone’s life and do it again and again and still hold it together? I wanted to ask her about it. Was there some secret to it?

But two years had passed since my mother went to her last group meeting. She was better. Stirring up old demons wouldn’t do her any good. I had to deal with it on my own.

I stood under the shower until the guilt got the better of me. Using up all the hot water wouldn’t be cool. My sisters and cousins still had to shower. I got out, wrapped a towel around my hair and another around my body, and looked at my reflection. The shallow cuts on my face and arm had survived without bleeding. The cut on my ribs was worse. I smeared an antibiotic ointment on it. Wincing and making sucking noises didn’t seem to make the pain any less. I slapped a Band-Aid on the gash and another one on my arm, just in case that cut decided to open up and make a mess.

If only I’d had some paper towels and duct tape lying around. I rolled my eyes. What the hell had he been thinking? He was what, a multimillionaire? And he bandaged himself with a paper towel and duct tape. How did he even know what duct tape was? Maybe he had his own Prime version at the house, stitched with gold and studded with diamonds, just in case he gave himself a paper cut.

I laughed under my breath, snorted, and laughed some more. Standing here, dripping wet, and laughing like a loon. Perfectly mentally fit.

I pulled the towel off my hair, reached to put it on the hook by the window, and stopped. My bathroom window had a view of the motor pool, and from this angle, I could see the entire expanse of Grandma Frida’s kingdom. Vehicles covered with canvas and racks with parts stood by the walls. In the middle of the polished concrete floor, Mad Rogan was drawing a magic circle with chalk. It started as a large pentagon, with a two-and-a-half-foot-wide circle at each corner. Lines sectioned the pentagon into separate parts, with glyphs running along the border of the design. It looked flawless, the pentagon sides straight, the circles round. It must’ve taken him years of practice.

Mad Rogan finished the last glyph and straightened. He was wearing the same Henley and pants he had on last night. He stretched, raising one leg, than the other, and hopped in place, as if jumping an invisible rope. For a moment he stood, barefoot, in front of the pentagon, then he stepped across the line and stopped, facing my side of the warehouse, his eyes closed, his arms at his sides.

The Key. I’d read about it. It was a ritual some of the greater Houses used to recharge. Mad Rogan had expended all of his magic, and now he would try to get it back. Somewhere Adam Pierce was probably doing a very similar thing. People had different opinions on what the Keys actually did. Some said they replenished magic, some said they just realigned the magic user to make the best of it. I’d seen some YouTube videos of it, but none of them were of good quality. The Keys were a well-guarded secret. Each was unique to the House that had developed it.

Mad Rogan raised his arms, his elbows bent, his hands wide open, his eyes closed. I leaned against the side wall. A variation of the mage pose. Okay. So far not that exciting.

Rogan turned his right arm to the side, flexing his back, stretching his chest, simultaneously stepping sideways into the circle with liquid grace, as if his whole body suddenly opened. He spun within the chalk boundary, shockingly fast. His foot shot out, hammering a devastating high kick to an invisible opponent. His hands sliced through the air, right, then left, like blades ready to cut down an attacker.

The outline of the circle began to glow pale blue.

Mad Rogan turned, leaped, spun, and moved into the second circle. His rigid fingers rolled into fists and blades transformed into hammers as he threw quick, hard punches. His long kicks turned short and vicious, his speed and strength melding into pure power. He was graceful, like a dancer, but brutal and efficient, like an assassin backed into a corner.

The second circle glowed. Sweat broke out on Mad Rogan’s face, yet a serene, calm expression claimed his face. He rolled into the third circle. His right hand shot up, fingers bent. I’d seen this exact move yesterday when he’d hit the fake firefighter in the face. He must’ve stopped short, because if he had done it the way he was doing it now, he would’ve driven the cartilage of the man’s nose straight into his brain.

There was a fluid, magnetic grace in the way he moved. All those muscles I had been admiring yesterday were just a by-product of his journey toward his goal. And the goal was power. Raw, lethal power. All of him, his incredible strength, his blinding speed, his flexibility, dexterity, and stamina blended together to achieve an almost feral savagery. Tiny hairs stood on the backs of my arms. It was like watching a god of primal human violence dance, and I couldn’t look away. If only I could have him all to myself. What would it feel like to walk up to him, put my hand on his shoulder, and see all that condensed violence turn into lust?

All five circles glowed now. He landed in the pentagon, back in the same mage pose. The glow flared brighter, then vanished, as if sucked into him. Mad Rogan stepped out, wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm, grabbed a bottle of water sitting on the nearest covered vehicle, and drank.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and shivered. My left foot sparked with tiny points of pain—it had fallen asleep. I hopped, grabbed my towel before it slid off me, and leaned back to glance through the window. He still stood there. The sun had risen, and golden light spilled into the warehouse, drawing long rectangles on the floor. It washed over him, making his tan skin glow. I couldn’t see his face, just the sharp angle of his cheek, warmed by the sun.

If I’d been next to him right now and he’d reached for me, I would have let him do anything he wanted right there, on the hood of some tank.

I was in over my head. I exhaled and tried to drown out the need pulsing through me. Mad Rogan was off limits. He was from a different world, he had different standards, and he promised to make me an orphan if my mother threatened him again. Okay, that last one did. I was all good now.

I moved away from the window.

I had to get a grip. Nothing but trouble would come from messing around with Mad Rogan. He and I needed to catch Adam Pierce, bring him to his family, and go our separate ways.

When I came downstairs, Mad Rogan was nowhere to be found. I tracked Grandma Frida in the garage. She was leaning against the track vehicle she’d been working on and drinking her morning tea.

“Something else, wasn’t he?” she asked me quietly.

“You saw me watching him?”

She nodded, reached over, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. “When did you get so grown up? When did I get so old?”

“You’re not old, Grandma. You could probably kick my butt.”

She sighed. “Be careful, Nevada. That’s a very dangerous man.”

Tell me about it. “I’m not planning on hanging out with him one second longer than necessary.”

Grandma Frida gave me an odd look.

“What?”

“Does he know that?”

“Yes, he does. I told him. This is a purely professional arrangement.”

Grandma Frida shook her head and sipped her tea. “How is the investigation going, Sherlock?”

“Well, we found a weird doohicky made of jewels and almost got ourselves blown up.”

“What does it have to do with Pierce?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea. But they are connected somehow. Where is Mad Rogan?”

“Bern came and got him.”

The less contact Mad Rogan had with my cousins and sisters, the better. “I guess I’ll go find them, then.”

“Guess so,” she said. “Watch your back, Nevada.”

“Always.”

“Because he isn’t Kevin.”

I turned on my foot. “Really, Grandma?”

She waved me on. “Go!”

She was right. Mad Rogan was as far away from Kevin as you could get.

A minute later I climbed the five steps to the Hut of Evil. Bern sat at his workstation. Mad Rogan stood behind him. Three screens in front of Bern showed the inside of Bug’s digital jungle lair in all its glory. Bug himself sat in front of the center monitor, petting Napoleon, who sprawled on his lap. His face was relaxed. Not twitching. No jumpy eyes. He was high as a kite on Equzol.

How in the world had Mad Rogan conned him into linking up to Bern’s system like this? Usually Bug was too paranoid. In the two years I’d known him, he wouldn’t even give me a phone number.

“. . . not bad for a home system,” Bug was saying.

“Is that a Strix T09x server behind you?” Bern asked.

Bug nodded.

“Nice. With Talon-M7?”

“Look again,” Bug said.

“How much Equzol did this cost you?” I murmured to Mad Rogan.

“You don’t want to know,” he said.

Bern zoomed in on a piece of convoluted computer equipment. “Can’t be.”

“See it and weep.” Bug held out a dog biscuit in front of Napoleon. The dog opened his mouth and patiently waited until Bug put a biscuit into it.

Bern frowned. “How did you get this? M8s are scheduled for release in two months. M9s shouldn’t even be in production yet.”

“That’s what they want you to believe. They’re waiting for the Stryker chip to drop. When the M8s go on sale, the price will go through the roof, and then they’ll be worthless in like a month, because the M9s with the new Stryker will flood the market. Dickfuckers.”

“You keep using that word,” Mad Rogan said. “You realize it doesn’t make sense?”

“Why?” Bug startled.

“You can’t fuck a dick,” Mad Rogan said.

“But you can fuck with a dick,” Bug said.

“Then it’s redundant,” Bern said.

This was the kind of argument that could go on for hours. “Bug, did you find something?”

Bug rolled his eyes. “No, I’m sitting here talking to you assholes, Major excluded, because I’m a social butterfly and I just love y’all so much.” His fingers danced across the keyboard. “Turns out that First National stores two months of their security footage and dumps it to a remote server every night. I’ve gone through it and voila!”

Security footage of the inside of the bank filled the left monitor. A light rectangle slid across the screen and singled out a slim woman walking across the polished floor. Platinum blond hair, well dyed, white blouse with a chunky gold necklace, grey skirt, shockingly bright red belt, pair of red pumps, and designer bag. A banker met her, and the camera caught her face as she turned. She was about thirty, with large grey eyes, framed by long false eyelashes and a thin mouth. Pretty overlaid with a polish of money.

“Meet Harper Larvo,” Bug announced. “Twenty-nine years old, father Phillip Larvo, mother Lynn Larvo, both in real estate. Not affiliated with any House. Attended Phillips Academy Andover, then Dartmouth, where she managed to squeak by with a degree in art history—I’ve seen the transcript, it’s not pretty. Harper’s a harmonizer, like both of her parents and her grandfather.”

Harmonizers in magic terms had nothing to do with music. A talented harmonizer could walk into a room and make it take on an entirely different mood just by rearranging a few objects. As talents went, this one wasn’t that rare. Harmonizers usually worked as interior designers, florists, fashion consultants, any sphere where something had to be coordinated to be esthetically pleasing.

“Harper rates as Notable, but she’s really not far from Average,” Bug said. “Which is something, but not remarkable. Her parents are Notable too, her grandfather was a Significant. Her family banks at Central Bank. All of their accounts are there and have been for fifty years. So what is she doing here? There is no trace of her opening an account. Furthermore, my sweet little chickies, Harper is more or less unemployed. She interned at a fashion magazine, worked on the Black and Red Hotel in Dallas with some Sullivan dude who is supposed to be famous, and she’s affiliated with a couple of charities, but mostly she parties and looks pretty. Like a butterfly. Useless and famous for nothing.”

Half a dozen images popped on the screen. Harper with a champagne flute. Harper lying on a table, prettily kicking her feet. Harper at some sort of photo shoot poised on a couch and pouting at the camera.

“And my favorite,” Bug announced.

An image filled the screen. Harper giggling, her hair, bright yellow blond, pressed against Adam Pierce, who was looking hot and bothered in his trademark leather. He had one arm around her.

“When was this?” Mad Rogan asked.

“Four years ago,” Bug said.

The video resumed and we watched Harper and the bank employee walk to the elevator. They moved slowly, the banker speaking and moving his hands, as if explaining. The doors of the elevator opened, and they disappeared from view.

“And down they go to the safe-deposit box room,” Bug announced.

“She got the grand tour,” I guessed. “All she had to do was tell them she was interested and set up an appointment, and they showed her the bank, including the safe-deposit vault, where she could’ve marked the right box for Gavin.”

“Do you have her number?” Mad Rogan asked.

“Yes, Major. Sent to your phone.”

When Bug said Major, he said it in the way people usually say sir. Until now, I would’ve sworn Bug had no idea what word respect even meant.