White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(38)

I climbed the ladder and emerged through the trapdoor into a small room, built at the very top of the warehouse. The ceiling here was barely five feet high, just enough to comfortably crawl up and sit on the low stool, which was exactly what my mother was doing. Her .300 Winchester Magnum sniper rifle was keeping her company. Dad and she had customized the roof, installing some very narrow windows, but they’d never gotten around to putting in the sniper tower. That had come later, courtesy of Grandma Frida and my mother, after Adam Pierce used some kids to blow up Rogan’s car in front of our warehouse.

From this vantage point, my mother had a perfect view of the north, south, and east sides of the warehouse and the adjoining street and parking lots. The warehouse was rectangular, and the west side, where Grandma’s Frida’s motor pool opened to the street, was too long. The roof blocked the view of that parking lot, so there was no clear shot.

I sat next to my mother.

She reached over and hugged me.

I felt like crying.

“How’s the injured?” she asked.

“A concussion. The collision knocked him out.”

“Nothing major?”

“Not that the medic found so far.” My voice sounded dull. “The Mazda is totaled.”

She didn’t even blink. “How did that happen?”

“Enerkinetic barrage mages had us pinned down and Rogan broke it in half and used it as a shield.”

“Are you injured?”

“Not seriously.”

“Is he?”

“Not seriously.”

“Are they hurt?”

“I killed them.”

“So everything is good then.”

“Yes. No.”

I opened my mouth and things just came out. I told her about Forsberg throwing me and then dying and about his eyes being two bloody holes I couldn’t unsee, watching the recording of lawyers being murdered, about the ice on the overpass and the parking lot below, and the demon, and hoping Troy didn’t have a broken neck.

She didn’t say a word. She just hugged me again.

“I should tell Cornelius,” I said.

“Cornelius won’t be up for a while. I gave him two sleeping pills,” Mom said.

“Oh.”

“He moved everything in, brought in all the animals, then tried to cook for Matilda, but the girls offered to make her oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, so she decided to eat that instead. Then he sat in the kitchen staring off into space and his hands were shaking. I made him take a hot shower, watched him take two pills, and the last I saw, he was sleeping like a log. He needs it. He hasn’t slept since his wife died.”

“I see.” One didn’t say no to my mother.

Mom reached over and brushed my hair out of my face. “Rough waters.”

“Yes. That’s okay. I climbed into them of my own free will.”

My phone rang. I looked at it. Rogan.

“Yes?”

“I’m on my way,” he said and hung up.

I stared at my mom. “The Scourge of Mexico is on his way. We’re saved.”

Mom snorted. “Lie down.” She pointed to a narrow mattress on the floor.

I did. She put a soft blue blanket over me. It was so warm up here, cozy under the blanket. My limbs felt very heavy. I was suddenly so tired, but I was safe. Mom would watch over me.

“Try to rest.”

“I feel so weird.” Like all those terrible things had happened to someone else.

“You’re in shock. Magic-induced panic has strange side effects. Your body needs time to recover. Try to relax and let it go. I’ll tell you when your Rogan gets here.”

“He isn’t mine.”

Mom smiled at me. “Sure he isn’t.”

I yawned. “He’s bad for me. Why do I have to like a man who’s bad for me? Why couldn’t I have found someone who is solid and normal and not whatever the hell he is?”

“I don’t know.” Mom spread her arms.

I squinted at her. “You’re an adult.”

“You’re an adult too.”

“But you’re an older adult. You’ve had more practice.”

Mom leaned back and laughed.

“Listen to me. I sound like I’m fifteen years old.” I tried to scrounge up some embarrassment, but I was too tired.

“When I was five years younger than you are now, your grandpa asked me the same question,” Mom said.

“What?” Grandma Frida always told me that she and Grandpa Leon loved my dad. Was it before Dad? It couldn’t have been. Mom had me when she was twenty.

“Your dad had a really rough life,” she said. “He had problems.”

“Like what?” I desperately tried to stay awake.

“He couldn’t do crowded places because he was convinced someone was following him and people were looking at him as if there was something wrong with his face.”

“Dad?”

“Yes. He couldn’t hold down a job. He only had a high school diploma, and the kind of jobs he took often meant he had to keep his mouth shut and do as he was told. But instead he would try to improve things. He’d point out ways to make the job better or to produce more, and he was usually right. He refused to cut corners and didn’t get into workplace politics so he would eventually get fired.”