White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(93)

Minutes stretched.

Augustine put his glasses on the table. “Rogan called me half an hour before our meeting.”

I’d asked him not to kill Augustine. I didn’t ask not to call. “What did he say?”

“He said that when you make a sequence of wrong choices, eventually you’re left with no choice at all. I thought he was speaking about Howling at the time. I realize now he managed to meld a rebuke and a death threat into a single sentence.”

Augustine faced me, his gaze direct.

“We’re sitting here because of my hubris. I made a sequence of poor decisions. I allowed you to interrogate a serial killer against my better judgment, knowing that you were circumspect about your magic and realizing the full extent of your possible exposure. I did this because Cornelius is my friend and our respective social positions precluded me from offering him a handout and would’ve prevented him from accepting one, but I wanted you to take his case. I also allowed my name to be connected to that interrogation, because the idea of being associated with a truthseeker appealed to me. Then I made a deliberate choice to offer you an unfair contract. I could’ve treated you as what you are—a young, talented Prime with a rare skill set—but I chose instead to attempt to take advantage of your inexperience. Then, I resorted to manipulation to win a pissing match with Rogan, even though I had realized at that point that while my interest was purely professional, he was emotionally invested. And so here we are. You, my former employee, would like to violate my mind, and if I don’t allow it, my best friend will murder me.”

“Augustine . . .”

He held up his hand. “Please. I’ve known Rogan a lot longer than you. I understood the phone call. I’ve miscalculated this gamble and badly. I’m being saved by your inexperience and the fact that you haven’t yet learned to eliminate problems with a brutal preemptive stroke. If this situation occurred five years from now, I would be dead.”

“Augustine . . .”

“It’s quite humbling. I have worked and schemed, and I’ve managed to manipulate myself into a place where I have no choices left to me. I suppose there is a lesson in there somewhere.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and put a piece of white chalk on the table. “Do it. Let’s get this over with.”

An hour later I walked into the night. Cold wind cut right through my clothes. Fatigue wrapped around me, pulling me down to the ground like an anchor. I had sunk all of my reserves into the shell on Augustine’s mind. And now I would have to drive home. I didn’t want to drive. I wanted to lie down right here on the pavement and close my eyes. It looked kind of soft and inviting. Definitely better than staying upright . . .

Okay, I needed to get home.

I surveyed the parking lot. A lone Honda waited in the parking spot. Rogan leaned against it.

I walked over. “Where is Melosa?”

“Home by now.” He held the passenger door out to me. The thought of taking the keys briefly flashed before me. No. As tired as I was, I’d probably wrap the Honda around the nearest tree. I slid into the passenger seat. He got in next to me and drove out of the parking lot.

His magic filled the cab, brushing against me, the beast with sharp fangs, ready to lash out. For once I didn’t pull away. I had none of my own left. It curled around me like one of Diana’s panthers—dangerous, volatile, but for the moment calm.

The city rolled past my window. I was turning into someone else. Augustine said in five years I would’ve just killed him. A few months ago it had seemed like an impossibility, something I would never do. Now I could see the slippery slope of decisions that would lead me there. They all would be hard decisions, made for the sake of a friend or for the protection of my family, and each one would come a little easier until the things I promised myself I’d never do would become the default. Would I even recognize myself in five years? I was looking into my future and all I could see was a black hole and a woman in a dress like armor.

Tension radiated from Rogan. A grim coldness gripped his features, petrifying them into a harsh mask, like the faceplate of some ancient helmet. The magic intensified, wrapping tighter around me. Visions of blood and ash swirled before me, and beyond them, a harsh cold darkness . . .

I reached out and put my hand on his arm. He startled and glanced back at me.

The interior of the car wavered and another place pushed itself into my mind. A lodge, all soft electric light, amber wood, and glass, beyond which white mountains rose, the sharp lines softened with snow and the velvet cushioning of distant trees. Winter ruled outside, cold and severe, but inside, within the lodge, comfortable warmth saturated the air. I sat on a huge bed, the sheets silken and soft under me. A white blanket wrapped around me, soft as a cloud, and so deliciously warm. I smelled hot chocolate. I felt completely and utterly content. My life and all its problems remained far behind, and here, at the edge of the world in the snowy wilderness, I didn’t have to worry about anything.

I stirred and the illusion rippled. I was still in the car, Rogan was driving, and my hand still rested on his muscular forearm. He was projecting. It had to be a memory, probably from childhood. I didn’t know if he was doing it on purpose or if it was an unconscious side effect of him remembering it, but I had a choice. I could reject it and stay in this car, miserable and feeling sorry for myself, or I could let myself sink into the place where I was safe and warm while winter raged outside. I held completely still and welcomed it.