White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(96)

I made a mental note to never try to fight Rogan with paperwork.

Lenora Jordan flipped through the stack of papers. “Do you know the identity of the manipulator working with David Howling?”

“We have a suspect,” Rogan said.

Lenora thought about it. Rogan had drawn a clear line: a manipulator was involved in the death of Senator Garza; Elena de Trevino had been in possession of surveillance footage of said murder, which she shared with Baranovsky; Elena and Nari Harrison were murdered by a manipulator and an ice mage; when we tried to investigate the murder, an ice mage tried to kill us, and that ice mage was David Howling. To get to the manipulator, we had to get David Howling. I wasn’t a lawyer, but even I could see that while we had enough to declare a feud, Lenora didn’t have enough to go to court. The video of Garza’s death was stolen and confirming its authenticity would mean arm wrestling with House Forsberg. Even if the video was authenticated and presented to the court, it offered no evidence of ice mage activity. For all intents and purposes, the death of Garza and David Howling’s attack on us could be completely unrelated incidents.

Lenora pulled the petition to her and signed it. “Petition for Verona Exception granted. The principals will provide full disclosure and will make every reasonable effort to detain the accused parties so they can be questioned by law enforcement. Don’t screw this up, Rogan.”



We left the massive lobby and exited onto Milam Street. While we’d spoken to Lenora Jordan, the clouds had torn, and now narrow rays of sunshine stabbed through the grey. Tall buildings turned the street into a canyon with a current of cars at the bottom. We turned left, walked to the end of the block, and made a right onto Rusk Street, moving against the flow of traffic. In this part of Houston, streets ran one way, crossing at 90 degree angles. Rusk channeled traffic southeast, Miriam ran perpendicular to it to the southwest, and I didn’t see anything suspicious in either direction. So far so good.

Ahead, on to the corner of Louisiana and Rusk, Melosa leaned against the Range Rover, her arms crossed, her face grim. Leon stood next to her, with an I-didn’t-do-anything-and-I-don’t-know-why-this-is-happening expression on his face. How . . .

“I’m going to kill him,” I squeezed through clenched teeth.

“Does he drive?” Rogan asked.

I accelerated. “No, he doesn’t drive. Do you think we’d let him have a car? He must’ve snuck into your car.”

“There was no time,” Rogan said.

“He’s talented.” And once I reached him, I’d pull his legs out.

Rogan gripped my shoulder and jerked me back. A carmine bolt of lightning exploded on the pavement in front of me. The air popped, punching my eardrums with an invisible fist. An enerkinetic.

I pulled my gun.

Another crimson burst rocketed toward us from above. A metal subway sign tore from the building and shot up to intercept it. The lightning splashed against it, spattering like glowing blood, fizzling. Ahead the street lamp turned as if cut at the base and flew straight up, snapping the tethers of electric cables.

Behind us brakes screeched. I spun around, my back against Rogan’s.

Creatures galloped toward us down Rusk, dodging the individual cars. Four feet tall and corded with steel muscle, they moved like giant cats, sprinting to kill their prey.

“Incoming!” I yelled.

“Melosa, get him out of here!” Rogan barked, his voice carrying clear across the street.

I chanced a glance back. Melosa grabbed Leon. The blue bubble of the aegis shield snapped into existence around her and she dragged him away, running down Louisiana Street.

Above us the red energy pounded against the subway shield, tearing it to pieces. The lamp post shot up and turned horizontal, sweeping the roof of the short two-story building.

The first beast leaped up onto a taxi and skidded over the cab. From the throat down it resembled a lean lioness sheathed in spiky purple-blue fur, splattered with black rosettes, each marked with a spot of red in the center. Thin furry tentacles thrust from its shoulders. The tentacles whipped and moved, flexing independently of each other, sampling the air like whiskers. Four small red eyes studded its head, each in a ring of black. It had no ears and no visible nose, only a lipless mouth filled with fangs.

The beast posed for a moment on top of the taxi, unsure where to take its next leap. Its mouth hung open, too wide, unhinging like it was the maw of a snake. The thin membrane of its cheeks glowed with red.

I sighted and fired.

The first two bullets ripped into the beast’s face. Pink mist flew from its skull. It leaped forward and charged me.

I exhaled and fired again, in a tight burst. Three, four.

The red clusters of enerkinetic magic rained on the pavement around us like crimson hail, exploding with an electric hiss.

The fourth bullet punched a hole between the creature’s eyes. Its momentum carried it forward another few feet, then it collapsed, head into the ground.

The second beast shot out from between the cars. I fired in twin bursts.

Five, six.

It kept coming. I had thirty bullets left. I had to be precise.

My heart still pounded, my blood still thudded through the veins in my head, but I left it behind, aware but separate from it, almost as if it was happening to someone else. The target was all that mattered.

Seven, eight. Nine, ten.

The beast skidded to a halt and collapsed.