White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(31)

Rogan’s face was grim. “The other is at the next house on our left.”

“They’re quick.”

“I noticed that.”

“You can’t collapse those roofs.”

“Not planning on it.”

“This is a family neighborhood. There could be children inside those homes.”

He grabbed my hand and looked at me, his blue eyes calm and reassuring. “I know.”

He wouldn’t hurt them. At least no other people would die because of us.

Disks thudded into the wood, gouging the oak. The tree shuddered from the impact. The barrage mages were ducking and throwing, too fast for Rogan to lock on to.

We had to move. We were running out of the tree.

I leaned back, facing the tree, and turned my head. Nothing to my right. Only houses. Nothing to my left, except more house and a carpet of brown mulch that crawled toward us . . .

Wait a minute.

Not mulch. Ants.

“Rogan, we’re about to have company.”

He glanced to the left and swore.

The carpet of the ants advanced in thin rivulets, the currents of insects pooling and changing directions as if momentarily confused, then realigning themselves. Whoever was controlling them didn’t have a good hold on the ant horde. He didn’t need to. We were in Texas, facing an insect mage, and that meant fire ants. They would flush us from behind the tree and the barrage mages would finish us.

The tree shook continuously now. It wouldn’t last much longer.

The ants marched on. On my right another street crossed ours and the ants poured around the corner. The insect mage had to be hiding there, out of our line of sight.

The crimson disk sliced a hair from my thigh. I turned sideways, almost hugging Rogan.

This is it flashed in my head. I could die right here on this lawn. One good shot from the barrage mages and I would never see my family again.

“How’s your aim?” Rogan asked.

I stomped the fear down. “It will have to be good enough.”

He bared his teeth at me. “On three.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

He held up one finger. Two.

We lunged from behind the tree at the same time. My Mazda snapped in half with a tortured scream of torn metal. The pieces shot up into the air just as the two figures on the roofs ducked from their cover, launching their spinning circles of magic at us. I sighted the one directly across from us. It felt so impossibly slow.

Kill or be killed. I squeezed the trigger. The gun spat thunder. The mage’s head jerked back. I turned, sighting the second barrage mage, and fired. The bullet punched into her chest. She slid down the roof and fell into the sea of ants.

The remnants of my Mazda streaked through the air, blocking the course of the two disks. The magic missiles thudded into metal and fiberglass and exploded, hissing.

Rogan grabbed my hand and pulled me into a run. We dashed across the street, through the arched entrance into someone’s yard and past their house. The brick fence exploded in front of us. Rogan turned left. He was going for the insect mage.

Behind us a woman howled, “Brown! Get them off of me! Fuck!”

“I’m trying!” a male growled from somewhere down the street.

“There are ants in my fucking bullet wound! Get them off of me!”



We sprinted to the corner of the street and stopped. I raised my gun and sliced the corner, clearing it. A large white van was parked by the curb. Four large metal drums sat on the ground next to it. A dark-haired man leaned around the next corner, his back to us.

The woman screamed and choked, her cry suddenly cut off.

“Serves you right, you stupid bitch,” the man muttered.

Rogan marched past me, murder on his face. The insect mage turned. Rogan grabbed his shoulder and sank a vicious punch into the man’s stomach. The insect mage doubled over, sinking. Rogan drove his knee into the man’s face. Something crunched. The mage crumpled to the ground.

“Stop,” I called out.

Rogan moved toward the fallen man.

“Stop, stop, stop.”

He glanced at me.

“Everyone else is dead, Rogan. We can’t question him if you kill him.”

He bent down, grabbed the mage by his throat, hauled him upright, and smashed him against the stone fence. The mage gurgled, struggling to breathe. Blood dripped from his broken nose. His eyes watered. I stepped close and searched him. No gun. I pulled out his wallet. Driver’s license for Ray Cannon. I took out my cell and took a picture of it.

“Is there anyone else?” Rogan asked, his voice cold and precise.

“No,” the man gasped.

Rogan squeezed, crushing his throat.

“True,” I confirmed.

Rogan loosened his hold. The man drew a hoarse breath and looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Help . . .”

Rogan shook him and slammed him back against the fence. “Don’t look at her. Look at me. Who pays your bills?”

“Forsberg.”

Damn it. I was hoping we’d get a lead on whoever was behind the attack. Instead we’d circled right back to Forsberg.

“Talk,” Rogan ordered.

“They told us you killed his old man, Matthias. There are two teams hunting you. We were closer. It was me, Kowaski, and his sister. We came in two cars—the Ford parked down the street and my van. We set up and waited for you to come out.”