White Hot, Page 4

  We got into my car and buckled up. I drove out of the parking lot and turned right, heading to Blalock Road. Anything to avoid the hell that was the 290. Cornelius’ face was a grim mask. He didn’t trust me yet. Trust took time.

  “May I ask, why your car?”

  “Because I’m familiar with the way it handles and we may have to drive very fast. In addition, this type of car blends into traffic, while your vehicle stands out.” Also because my grandmother made some modifications to the engine and installed bulletproof windows after my Adam Pierce adventure, but he didn’t need to know that. “What’s in that bag?”

  “It’s a private matter, unrelated to our visit to the Assembly.”

  Okay. Fair enough. But now, of course, I was dying to figure out what was in there.

  “Do you smoke?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “How do you know about the smoking bathroom?” Here’s hoping he hadn’t shared with anyone that we were planning to visit.

  “My brother is deeply offended by its existence. He’s asthmatic.”

  True. So far he hadn’t lied to me.

  “My turn,” Cornelius said. “What do you hope to gain by speaking with Forsberg? He won’t admit any guilt.”

  “I have a lot of experience with watching people, and I can usually tell when they’re lying.”

  And we ran into roadwork. Of course. Now I would have to merge onto Katy Freeway.

  “Curiously, that’s almost exactly what Augustine told me about you,” Cornelius said.

  Augustine had kept my secret. Primes didn’t do anything without some ulterior motive. I wasn’t looking forward to finding out what he was planning.

  “Are you having second thoughts? It’s not too late. We can turn around and I’ll refund your retainer.”

  “No.” Cornelius looked out the window. “When I woke up this morning, I thought of kidnapping Forsberg and torturing him until he told me everything he knew.”

  Homicidal fantasies were never a good sign. “That would be a terrible idea. First, it’s illegal. Second, we don’t know if Forsberg is involved. If he isn’t, you would’ve tortured an innocent man. Third, my cousin ran the background on House Forsberg. While they are not the wealthiest House in Houston, their net worth is substantial and so is their private security force. If you were to kidnap Forsberg and not die in the attempt, you would be hunted down and eventually killed.”

  Cornelius didn’t answer.

  Bern and I had stayed up way too late with House Forsberg’s file. Matthias Milton Forsberg, fifty-two years old, was a fourth-generation Texan and very proud of it—so proud that he’d gone to the University of Texas instead of the usual Ivy League schools. He’d become the head of his House twelve years ago, when his father retired. He was married, with two adult children, Sam Houston Forsberg and Stephen Austin Forsberg, which made me laugh a little last night while drinking coffee. It was good that he’d stopped at two, because nobody was quite sure which man Dallas was named after. Matthias had never been arrested, never served in the military, and never declared bankruptcy. He did own a lot of houses.

  Magically he was a hopper. Hoppers compressed the space around them, propelling themselves or others through it. Usually their hops were short-range, topping out at thirty yards. Still, they could cover short distances very quickly and were hard to target while hopping, which made them highly sought after by the military. I’d never encountered one before, so I had watched some YouTube videos. Most of them consisted of guys between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five launching things at walls with their magic, such as watermelons, pumpkins, cans of paint, and in one particular extra-stupid video, a gallon of gasoline with a lighted fuse made out of a long sock. That went about as well as you would expect. Most of them tried to throw each other or themselves as well, but none had enough power. The best they could do was stagger their friends a few feet. According to Bern, the mass and size of the object were a factor.

  The internet claimed that Prime-rank hoppers could pass through solid walls if they timed their jumps right. If that was true, Forsberg’s reputation for flirting with corporate espionage made perfect sense.

  Public records and YouTube videos weren’t much to go on, but unlike me, Cornelius had access to the House database and he’d probably met Forsberg.

  “What can you tell me about Matthias Forsberg?” I asked.

  “He’s a typical Houston Prime; he safeguards the family wealth, he has firm ideas of what is and isn’t proper for a person of his social standing, and he avoids public scrutiny. He considers very few people his equals and treats the rest with contempt.”

  “Can he hop through walls?”

  “Yes. Could you take the next exit, please?”

  I pulled off the freeway.

  “Make a right and park, please.”

  We made a right and stopped before a construction site. The steel bones of the building were beginning to take shape, wrapped in scaffolding. Cornelius got out, took the sack out of the trunk, and walked down the road between the buildings, disappearing from view. Talon swooped down, following him.

  What could be in the sack? It was plastic, reinforced with mesh. He could have body parts in there and I would never know.

  I drummed my fingers on the dashboard and turned on the radio. “. . . no updates on Senator Garza’s murder investigation. The police department remains . . .”

  I turned it off.

  It couldn’t be body parts. They would’ve made bulges. The sack seemed uniform, so unless he’d minced the body parts into mush . . . Okay, this was just morbid. Four months ago it wouldn’t even occur to me that there might be body parts in the sack.

  Cornelius reappeared, carrying an empty sack. If it had been filled with something nasty, I would smell it when he put it back in the car.

  He folded the sack carefully and put it in the trunk. Nope, no weird smells. No suspicious dripping.

  “Thank you,” he said. “We can be on our way now.”

  The Assembly occupied the America Tower, a graceful skyscraper on the corner of Waugh Drive and Allen Parkway. The forty-two stories of pale concrete and dark windows rose in elegant curves to almost six hundred feet above Houston’s midtown. This December had brought endless rain, complete with floods, and a perpetually gloomy overcast sky. The America Tower stood out against this dark backdrop as if some wizard’s mystical spire had escaped its legend and appeared in the middle of Houston. It was filled with mages, except this kind of mage wouldn’t sing songs in a bumbling, adorable way or send you on a heroic quest. They would murder you in an instant and then their lawyers would make any hints of a criminal investigation disappear.

  We cleared a security booth, where Cornelius had to show his ID, then parked and stepped out of the car. Talon dived over us and took off, flying past a large dandelion-shaped fountain wrapped in a white fuzz of mist to the trees on the side.

  We walked past the perfectly manicured emerald-green lawn toward the glass entrance. I missed the weight of my gun, but the Glock had to stay in the car.

  “How does your magic work?” I asked softly. “Are you telepathically controlling Talon? Could you see through his eyes?”

  “No.” Cornelius shook his head. “He’s his own bird. I give him food, shelter, and affection, and in return, when I ask for a favor, he answers.”

  Talon wasn’t just a bird, he was a pet. That probably meant that Bunny was also a pet. If any of his animals got hurt, Cornelius would react very strongly. I would have to keep it in mind.

  We were almost to the doors.

  “Forsberg probably won’t dignify any of my questions with an answer,” I said.

  “I agree.”

  “You may have to do the asking. I want you to be blunt. Yes-or-no questions are best.”

  “So you need me to walk up to him and ask him if he’s responsible for Nari’s death?”

  “No, that’s too broad a term. He may have had nothing to do with it, but he may feel guil
ty or upset because of what happened to her. We know that he himself didn’t do it, because at the time of the murder, he was photographed by about fifty people at the Firemen’s Annual Fundraiser Dinner. Ask him if he ordered her killed. No matter what he answers, your second question should be ‘Do you know who did?’ We need to see his reaction. Keep your questions short and to the point and don’t elaborate so he doesn’t have a way to weasel out of it. Silence puts people under a lot of pressure and they’ll try to respond. If I think he’s lying, I’ll nod.”

  Cornelius held the door open for me and we walked into the lobby. The blast of air-conditioning after the rain made me shiver. The temperature outside hovered around the low seventies, but inside it must’ve been barely above sixty degrees. The floor, high-gloss sandy-brown marble, gleamed like a mirror. Logic said they had to have installed it in tiles, but I couldn’t even see the grout lines. The same marble sheathed the walls. In the center of the floor, three banks of elevators offered access to upstairs. Four guards, dressed in crisp white shirts and black pants and armed with Remington tactical shotguns, stood at the strategic points near the walls. Three more manned the desk in front of the metal detector. The Assembly’s guards weren’t playing. Prime or not, a tactical shotgun would make me reconsider any mischief really fast.

  If I pointed a gun in their direction, they would fire without a second thought and whoever was in the immediate vicinity would be caught in that blast.

  “You were right,” Cornelius said quietly.

  “Thank you.”

  We reached the desk, where Cornelius got a “Welcome, Mr. Harrison. We’re glad to see you again.” I got to pull out two forms of ID and fill out a three-page questionnaire that included my blood type and medical-insurance provider before they eventually issued me a one-day pass.

  Finally, we made our way to the elevators. According to Cornelius, Forsberg would be on the twenty-fifth floor. I pushed the appropriate button and the elevator rose. The doors opened on the fourth floor and a man in a hooded robe strode in. The robe was jet black, split on the sides like the tabard of some medieval knight, and equipped with a deep hood that hid its owner’s face. Only his chin with a carefully trimmed red beard was visible. A dark green stole draped his shoulders, shining with silver embroidery. Underneath the robe the man wore black pants tucked into soft black boots that came halfway up his ankle, and a black shirt. He looked frightening, almost menacing, like a mage ready for war.

  I took a step to the side, giving him room.

  The man pushed the button for the tenth floor. A moment later the doors opened and he stepped out.

  Another robed person, a woman this time judging by the braid of dark hair spilling from the hood, walked up to him before the doors closed, hiding them from view.

  “Why are they dressed that way?” I murmured.

  “It’s tradition. The Assembly has a Lower Chamber, where every Prime and Significant of a qualified House can vote, and the Upper Chamber, where only Prime heads of Houses can vote. The robes mean they belong to the Upper Chamber.”

  The elevator stopped three floors later and another robed man got in, his stole gold embroidered with black.

  “Cornelius!”

  The mage pulled back his hood, revealing the handsome face of a man in his early sixties, with bold features, a broad forehead, and smart hazel eyes caught in the network of wrinkles. A short beard, black and sprinkled with silver, hugged his jaw. His hair, once probably dark with some white, but now mostly white with some dark, was brushed away from his face. He looked like your favorite uncle who lived somewhere in Italy, owned a vineyard, laughed easily, and hugged you when you came to visit. Right now his face showed concern, and his eyes were saddened.

  “My boy, I just heard.” The man hugged Cornelius. “I’m so sorry.”

  His regret was genuine. How about that?

  “Thank you.”

  “Words can’t express . . .” The man fell silent. “You, the young, you’re not supposed to die. Old men like me, we come to terms with our own death. We’ve lived full lives. But this . . . this is an outrage. What is Forsberg doing about it?”

  “Nothing,” Cornelius said.

  The man drew back. His deep, resonant voice rose. “Nari was an employee of his House. What do you mean he’s doing nothing? It’s his duty. The honor of his House is at stake.”

  “I don’t believe he cares,” Cornelius said.

  “This would’ve never happened under his father. There are certain things that the head of a House simply does. Let me see what I can do. My voice may not be as loud as it once was, but people still listen to it. If you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.”

  True. A sincere Prime who actually showed compassion.

  “Thank you.”

  The man got off on the twentieth floor.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Linus Duncan,” Cornelius said. “Very old, very powerful House. He used to be the Speaker of the Upper Chamber. The most powerful man in Houston. Until they drove him out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was honest and he tried to change the Assembly for the better,” Cornelius said.

  It didn’t surprise me. Houses feared change like it was a rabid tiger.

  The elevator chimed, announcing our floor. We stepped off and turned right. Near the middle of the long hallway, by an open door, three men stood together discussing something, all dark-haired, middle-aged, and wearing black robes with their hoods down. One of them was Matthias Forsberg. Of average height but with the broad, sturdy frame of an aging football player, Forsberg stood out. His shoulders were wide and heavy, his stance direct. He planted his feet as if he expected to be run over. His face, with dark eyes, wide eyebrows that angled down without any hint of an arch, and a hint of softness around the chin, didn’t match his body.

  Cornelius sped up, heading toward the men. I chased after him. Forsberg raised his head, glancing in our direction. His expression changed from tense to alarmed. The two other men looked in our direction and moved to the other end of the hallway, leaving Forsberg alone.

  “Harrison,” Forsberg said, looking like he just found some rotten potatoes in his pantry. “My condolences.”

  “Did you order the death of my wife?” Cornelius asked. His voice rang out. People looked in our direction. Smart. Forsberg would have to respond now and it was clear he wasn’t used to backing down.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Forsberg growled.

  “Yes or no, Matthias.”

  “No!”

  Truth.

  “Do you know who did?”

  “Of course not.”

  My magic buzzed, an angry invisible mosquito. Lie. I nodded.

  “If I did, I’d take action.”

  Lie.

  “Was her death connected to the business of your house?”

  “No.”

  Lie.

  Cornelius looked at me. I nodded again.

  “Tell me who killed my wife,” Cornelius ground out through his teeth.

  Argh. Wrong question.

  “You’re delusional and grieving,” Forsberg said. His expression hardened. “This is the only reason you’re still breathing. I’m going to give you one chance to get out of this building . . .”

  His gaze snagged on something behind me. His eyes opened wide and I saw fear ignite in their depths. It was so at odds with the bullheaded arrogance he projected, I almost did a double take.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  A tall man was striding from the far end of the hallway. He wore the black robe and it flared around him, the wings of a raven about to take flight. He walked like he owned the building and he’d spotted an intruder in his domain. Magic boiled around him, vicious and lethal, so potent I could feel it from thirty yards away. He wasn’t a man, he was an elemental force, a thunderstorm clad in black about to unleash its fury. People flattened themselves against the walls, trying to get out of his way. I
saw his face and recoiled. Chiseled chin, strong nose, and blue eyes blazing with power under dark slashes of eyebrows.

  Mad Rogan.

  My heart hammered so fast; my chest was about to explode.

  He was coming toward me.

  Our stares connected. I clamped all my thoughts into a steel fist, trying to keep my reaction under control.

  His expression softened and for a fraction of a second I saw him looking at me with a mix of surprise and relief. Then the gaze of those furious eyes fixed on Forsberg with predatory focus. I knew that expression. It said, “Murder.”

  I whipped around. Panic drowned Forsberg’s face. Magic contracted around him, compressing in on itself like a spring coiling under pressure. The hallway around me stretched back as if marble and metal suddenly became elastic.

  I shoved Cornelius out of the way.

  The hallway compacted like an aluminum can flattened by pressure and suddenly I was airborne. I hurtled through the air, straight at Mad Rogan.

  Fate threw us at each other. I could never tell Grandma.

  I crashed into Rogan. Strong arms caught me. The impact spun us around, and I landed upright on the floor to the right of him. Before my feet touched the marble, Rogan hurled a handful of quarters in the air. The coins streaked at Forsberg, flattened bullets driven by Rogan’s power, dodging random people in the hallway as they shot toward their target.

  The air around Forsberg shimmered. The coins collided with the shimmer and fell to the ground, bouncing from an invincible barrier. Forsberg blurred, landing twenty yards back from where he’d been.

  “Shoot him,” Rogan said, his voice clipped.

  “No gun.”

  Forsberg looked scared to death. People who panicked didn’t think; they ran. I dashed toward the elevator. We had to beat him to the lobby.

  Forsberg jumped straight up, blurred, and then fell through the floor. I caught myself on the corner of the short hallway leading to the elevator, slid on the marble floor, and mashed the button going down. Rogan was only a step behind me.

  The elevator doors slid open and we rushed inside. I hit the button for the lobby. The door began to slide closed and Cornelius squeezed through the gap at the last moment, causing them to reopen. Rogan jerked the animal mage off his feet, slamming him against the elevator wall, his forearm pressed against the blond man’s throat. Cornelius groaned, his feet above the ground, all of his weight pushing his neck against Rogan’s forearm.