Burn for Me (Hidden Legacy #1)(102)

“Then you better do something to save him.”

My magic snapped to him.

“Not me.” Rogan pointed at Mr. Emmens. “Him.”

I pivoted. My magic grasped the old man into its vise. He paled. The circle fed me more power. I stared into his eyes. “Is your name Mark Emmens?”

“Yes.”

True.

My magic locked on him. He was enclosed in a barrier, like a nut in a shell. It was old, thick, and strong. I felt his life, shivering inside, both protected and bound by the shell. The two were connected. If I broke the barrier, the light of his life would perish with it.

“Do you know where the third piece of amulet is hidden?”

He tried to resist. I punched the circle with my magic. Power bounced into me. I grasped the invisible barrier with my magic and strained to wrench it apart. I didn’t need much. Just a gap. A small opening.

The shell resisted.

I didn’t have time for this. Bern would die.

I pulled the power from the circle. It kept coming and coming, as if I pulled on a rope, expecting only a foot or two, but it kept going, and now I was pulling it with both hands as fast as I could. The influx of power slowed. I punched the circle again and the flow sped up. I focused it all on the shell.

It shuddered.

More power.

I felt light-headed.

Another tremor.

The shell cracked. In my mind, I saw light spilling from inside it. I thrust my magic into it like a wedge and kept it open.

“Yes,” Mr. Emmens said.

He had answered my question. I made my mouth move. “Is the third piece in your possession?”

“No.”

“Is it hidden on the property you own?”

“No.”

“She’s going to die,” Augustine warned. “She’s pulling too much power.”

“She’s fine,” Mad Rogan said.

It hurt now. It hurt as if something had stabbed me in the stomach and I was trying to pull the knife out inch by inch. But my magic wedge held.

Think, think, think . . .

Bern’s face looked at me from the camera. I had to save him. He was just a boy. He had his whole life ahead of him.

Adam Pierce was going downtown. The piece had to be here. In the center of the city. It wouldn’t be in a bank or in a building, because the Emmens family wouldn’t want to repeat themselves.

“Is it on the property you used to own?”

“No.”

The pain was clawing at me now, hot and sharp.

“Is it on the property your relative owns?”

“No.”

“Is it on a property your relative used to own?”

“Yes.”

That yes nearly rocked me.

“Search the records,” Augustine barked.

The five people at the computer terminals typed furiously.

“Was that property sold?”

“No.”

If his relative no longer owned it but it hadn’t been sold, what the heck could’ve happened to it?

The world swayed. I was about to pass out. I clung onto consciousness, desperately struggling to stay upright.

“Frederick Rome,” one of the computer techs reported. “His daughter’s ex-husband, from her first marriage, used to own a building on Caroline Street. It was lost in a divorce settlement and awarded to his second ex-wife.”

Augustine spun to me. “Ask if it was lost in a legal action.”

“Was the property lost as a result of a legal action or awarded as a settlement?”

“No.”

Tiny red circles swam in my eyes. My magic was ebbing. I was barely holding on. I forced my brain to work through the haze of pain and fatigue. It was downtown. There was nothing downtown but big businesses owned by Houses, government buildings, and . . .

Government buildings.

“Is it on municipal land?”

“Yes.” Mr. Emmens came to life.

“Was the property donated to the city?”

“Yes.” Mr. Emmens nodded.

The techs typed so fast that the clicking of their keys blended into a hum.

“Patricia Bridges,” the middle technician called. “Married to William Bridges, maiden name Emmens.”

Mr. Emmens smiled.

“William and Patricia Bridges jointly donated a parcel of land to the city of Houston, provided that the land may never be sold or built upon but used instead as a place for the free people of Texas to gather as they see fit.”

The Bridge Park. Directly across from the justice center. My magic was quaking under pressure. I had just enough time left for one last question.

“Is it in a monument that includes a horse?”

“Yes,” Mr. Emmens said.

The shell snapped closed, crushing my magic.

Mad Rogan grabbed me and pulled me out of the circle. The pressure and pain vanished. I felt light-headed again.

His gaze searched my eyes. “Speak to me.”

“I hate you.”

“Okay.” Mad Rogan let go of me. “You’re fine.”

He handed me the phone. I grabbed it. “Bernard, get out of there! You don’t understand, Pierce is about to burn down downtown!”

“I know. I volunteered,” he said. “Did you do it?”

Oh you idiot. “Yes! Get out of there. Don’t bother with the van, go down into the tunnels.”