White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(2)

“We have a deal,” I repeated.

Augustine sighed. “Very well. Come with me.”

I followed him to a wooden door. He opened it. I walked through into a small room with a two-way mirror in the far wall.

Jeff Caldwell raised his head and looked at me. I searched his eyes and saw nothing. They were flat and devoid of all emotion. Behind him a two-way mirror hid observers. Augustine assured me that only the police would be present.

The door closed behind me.

“What is this?” Caldwell asked.

My magic touched his mind. Ugh. Like sticking your hand into a bucket of slime.

“I did nothing wrong,” he said.

True. He actually believed that. His eyes were still flat like those of a toad.

“Are you just going to stand there? This is ridiculous.”

“Did you kidnap Amy Madrid?” I asked.

“No.”

My magic buzzed in my brain. Lie. You scumbag.

“Are you holding her somewhere?”

“No.”

Lie.

My magic snapped out and clamped him in its vise. Jeff Caldwell went rigid. His nostrils fluttered as his breathing sped up, racing in tune to his rising pulse. Finally, emotion flooded his eyes, and that emotion was raw, sharp terror.

I opened my mouth, letting the full power of my magic saturate my voice. It came out low and inhuman. “Tell me where she is.”





Chapter 1

Figuring out when people lied came naturally to me and required no effort. Compelling someone to answer my questions was a whole different ball game. Until a couple of months ago I didn’t even realize I had the power to do it. Picking through Jeff Caldwell’s mind was like swimming through a sewer. He fought me every step of the way, his will bucking in panic, threatening to shatter his own mind in self-defense. The trick wasn’t getting the information; it was keeping his mind intact enough to stand trial. I’d gotten what I wanted anyway, and when I exited MII’s building, a caravan of cop cars had taken off down Capitol Street, an urgent cacophony of sirens demanding right of way.

Jeff Caldwell had drained me down to nothing. Driving was an effort. Somehow I made it through Houston’s notorious traffic, turned onto the road leading to our house, and almost blew through a stop sign. It was a bad place, too; delivery trucks had a nasty habit of rolling out this way as if other cars didn’t exist.

Nothing rolled out today. I glanced down the access road anyway. A two-foot-high steel barrier bristling with thick six-inch-long spikes blocked the street. Judging by the indentations in the pavement it could be lowered into the ground. If you added some blood and tattered cloth on the spikes, it would fit into any postapocalyptic movie. The barrier hadn’t been here a couple of days ago. The last time two trucks collided here must’ve resulted in some serious lawsuit.

I yawned and kept going. Almost home. Almost. I pulled into the lot in front of our warehouse and parked my Mazda minivan between my mother’s blue Honda Element and Bern’s 2005 Ford Mustang. My cousin’s ancient Civic had died a sad death a month ago, when the descendants of two magical families decided to have words in the college parking lot. Their words involved trying to crush each other with five-hundred-pound decorative rocks from the landscaping display. Unfortunately, their aim turned out to be crap and they survived. Their families reimbursed us—and five other car owners—for the damages. Now a gunmetal-grey Mustang occupied the Civic’s former spot.

No charges had been filed. In our world, magic was the ultimate power. If you had it, you suddenly found that many rules bent around you.

I dragged myself out of the car and punched the code into the security system. The heavy-duty door clicked; I swung it open, stepped inside, and shut it behind me. The familiar office walls, plain beige carpet, and glass panels greeted me.

Home.

Today was over. Finally. I exhaled and took off my shoes. I had stopped by a client’s office before dressing up as a Scottish highwaywoman, so I was still wearing one of my “we’re not poor” outfits. I owned two expensive suits and two matching pairs of heels, and I wore the first when I went to see a client who might be impressed by appearances and the second when I came to collect the payment. The heels I had to put on today should’ve been banned as evil torture devices.

Someone knocked.

Maybe I’d imagined it.

Another knock.

I turned and checked the monitor. A blond man stood in front of my door. Short and compact, with a serious face and thoughtful blue eyes, he was in his late twenties. A zipped-up brown leather folder rested in his hands. Cornelius Harrison of House Harrison. A few months ago Augustine had strong-armed me into looking for Adam Pierce, a lunatic pyrokinetic with the highest magical pedigree. Cornelius had been forced by his family to play the role of Adam’s “boyhood companion,” a role he had detested. Cornelius had helped me in my investigation. His older sister currently ran House Harrison.

The Cornelius I remembered was clean-shaven and meticulously dressed. This Cornelius was still well-dressed, but his cheeks were rough with stubble and an unsettling shadow darkened his eyes, as if he had seen something that disturbed him to the very core and was still reeling from the impact.

A little girl stood next to him, carrying a small Sailor Moon backpack. She had to be about three or four years old. Her hair was dark and straight and her eyes pointed at an Asian heritage, but her features reminded me of Cornelius. Their expressions, solemn and serious, were completely identical. I knew he had a daughter but I’d never met her. A large Doberman Pinscher sat next to the child, as tall as she was.