I would go to our warehouse and be surrounded by a warm human chaos. Someone would be cooking; someone would be watching TV or playing video games. My sisters would be sniping at each other; Leon would complain about his never-ending battle with the French language; then Grandma Frida would come in, smelling of engine grease and metal, and poke fun at my mother . . . I would wrap myself in these warm human connections and let them melt away the dark coldness of today.
Mad Rogan didn’t have anyone to go home to. He would return to his Zorro house, eat whatever someone brought him, and probably watch that recording again to see if there was anything he’d missed. He had all the power but it brought him no warmth. No human safety net that would catch him when he was sinking and help him keep his head above water.
I couldn’t let him do it.
“Have dinner with me,” I asked. “At my house. You can help me explain to my mother and grandmother what happened to my work vehicle.”
A hint of a grin touched his lips. His eyes lit up. “Do you think your mother might try to shoot me?”
“Possibly.”
“Then absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it.”
And he would be the politest dragon ever. Tail tucked in, fangs hidden, and talons carefully folded on his lap. I had just invited Mad Rogan to have dinner. Again. My poor mom.
Rogan’s phone chimed. He glanced at it and swore.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Luanne’s sister just arrived in Houston. I have to meet her.”
I tried to sort out the tangled mess of emotions. Was I relieved or disappointed? I wasn’t sure. “Rain check?”
“What time is dinner?”
“Usually around five thirty, six.”
“I can make it.”
I glanced at my phone. It was three fifteen. He could reasonably make it.
“Pull over,” Rogan said.
Troy took an exit and pulled into a gas station.
“I’ll be there,” Rogan promised.
“I’d like that.” I meant it.
He opened the door, stepped out, and bent down. “Take Ms. Baylor wherever she wants to go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rogan grinned at me and shut the door.
Troy pulled away. “Where to, Ms. Baylor?”
“Nevada. Would you mind making a small detour for me to pick up some takeout?”
“Your wish is my command,” Troy said.
Right. I dialed Takara’s number. My sisters would get their sushi after all.
Chapter 5
The Katy Freeway slid by outside the passenger window, the traffic unusually light, the five lanes of smooth pavement channeling a handful of cars forward. In an hour, when the workday rolled to a close, traffic would be murder. The sky, torn between rain and overcast drudgery all day, had finally decided on rain. Water poured from above as if some giant had decided to hold a showerhead above the city.
I petted the plastic bag on the back seat next to me. I had spent way too much money on sushi and I didn’t care. After all of the nightmarish things I had seen today, I wanted to buy my sisters all the sushi in the world. I was so grateful they were alive I might even hug them when I got home. Of course, they’d freak out and claim I needed to have my head examined.
Troy’s reflection in the rearview mirror frowned. “Are you buckled?”
“Yes. Why?”
“A Toyota 4Runner is hanging out behind us. He was speeding and weaving through the lanes until he settled on our ass. I’m going five miles under the speed limit, the left lane is wide open, and he isn’t passing.”
I pulled my Glock out and glanced behind us through the tinted back window. The black 4Runner stayed about three car lengths back. A driver and a passenger, both dim, dark silhouettes in the rain. I snapped a picture of the license with my phone. Not great, but once we uploaded it and ran it through some filters, we should be able to read it.
“I’ve got the rear and front cameras recording,” Troy said.
Nice. That’s the thing I always liked about Rogan and didn’t mind admitting: he was thorough and he thought ahead. “The exit to Sam Houston Parkway is coming up.”
“Yep.” Troy checked his rearview mirror again. “Let’s see if he follows.”
The sign announcing the exit flashed by. An exit-only lane peeled off from our lane, running parallel to the main road. A concrete barrier loomed ahead, where our lane split: the left side kept going with Katy, the right joined the exit lane and veered toward a high overpass.
The barrier sped straight at us.
Troy took a sharp right onto the exit and stepped on the gas. The Range Rover flew down the lane. The 4Runner behind us picked up speed. We hurtled up the curving overpass, the ground far below.
A black Suburban drew even with us in the left lane. A man in the front passenger window looked at me, his face smudged behind the rain-splattered window. Maybe midthirties, blond hair brushed back. The man leaned closer to the glass and smiled. The Suburban shot past us. The wet pavement behind the large vehicle turned white with frost. Ice sheathed the road.
The Range Rover slid. My stomach jerked left, then right, trying to escape my body. I grabbed the seat in front of me. We fishtailed down the overpass, Troy’s face a white mask in the rearview mirror. My heart hammered in panic. The Range Rover veered into the concrete outer rail. A hideous metal screech ripped through the cabin. A hundred feet below us a parking lot yawned.
We were going to die.
Troy wrestled the wheel back. The Range Rover skimmed the icy road like a pinball shot out of the machine, cleared the apex of the curve, and sped down the overpass. Ahead, the Sam Houston Parkway stretched, the entire right lane glistening with ice. We were going too fast, but if Troy slammed on the brakes, we’d skid and die. The Range Rover slid to the left, then to the right. Troy was pumping the brakes gently, trying to shed all of that speed.
A semi roared next to us in the left lane, blocking us in. We fishtailed down the lane, caught between the semi and the concrete rail.
The familiar 4Runner slid behind the semi. The passenger window rolled down.
Here’s hoping Rogan’s money bought us enough armor.
“Gun!” I warned.
Bullets sprayed the road behind the car. Something hissed—they’d hit our tires. The rubber inserts meant we’d keep going, but steering had just gotten extra complicated.
The Range Rover slid again, skidding on the ice. Troy caught the skid, steering into it.
They hadn’t attacked us while Rogan was in the car. They weren’t ready for that confrontation, which meant even now they would want to keep their identity a secret. If I didn’t want an attack to lead back to me, I’d use stolen cars, and if the 4Runner chasing us was stolen, it had no armor.
I tried the window. Locked.
“Lower the window.”
“Can’t do that. Stay buckled.”
“Troy!”
“I lower that window and crash, you’ll fly through the windshield,” he growled.
Getting off the highway was our only chance. “If you don’t roll down the window, they’ll keep shooting us. Even if the car shields us, the bullets will ricochet. There are innocent people on this road. Open the window!”
The window slid down. I unbuckled, took aim at the 4Runner, and fired five shots in a tight pattern. The windshield fractured. The 4Runner dropped back. The semi slid between the 4Runner and us, blocking the shot.
Three rounds left.
Ahead the exit lane for Hammerly Boulevard peeled off the highway.
The semi roared, speeding up. Troy stood on the gas, but it was too late. I locked my seat belt and thrust the gun down to the right, so I wouldn’t shoot myself or Troy.
The semi rammed us. The Range Rover jumped forward, slid, hurtling out of control, the truck thundering past us as it veered back into the left lane. We smashed into something solid. The impact punched me. The gun slipped through my fingers. The seat belt burned my shoul
der and chest, knocking the wind out of me.
I opened my eyes. The deflated sacks of the front airbags hung from the dash. Troy lay limp in his seat. The impact had bent Troy’s door in, forcing his seat all the way back and pinning my knees in place. My Glock was somewhere in the car, probably on the floor by the passenger seat on my right, and I had no way to reach it. Great.
“Troy?”
He didn’t respond.
I put my hand on his neck and felt the fluttering of a pulse. Even; didn’t seem weak, although I wasn’t a doctor. I held my hand close to his nose. Breathing. Okay. Where the hell was that semi?
I tried to turn to look behind me and managed a half glance over my shoulder. The semi was gone.
The 4Runner had stopped ahead of us on the tollway in the right lane, its front toward us, oblivious to traffic that had to flow around it. The driver door swung open. A leg emerged below the door. It ended in a hoof.
A wave of dread rolled over me, a sickly overwhelming fear. My heart raced. Cold sweat broke out all over my body. The hair on my arms stood up. I had to get out. I had to get out now.
A second foot joined the first. Something wide and dark rose above the door. The dark thing unrolled and snapped into a leathery bat wing.
My chest hurt. My throat constricted, choking me. I unbuckled the seat belt with shaking hands and jerked, trying to get my legs free. Stuck.
It couldn’t be real. People summoned monsters from the arcane realm, but I’d never heard of anyone summoning actual demons. Yet it was right there, living, breathing, real, and every instinct I had howled and clawed at my logic.
The creature started toward me. Panic clamped me in an icy vise. The demon stood seven feet tall, its enormous leathery wings mottled with green and brown and streaked with thick cables of veins. Python scales sheathed its muscular arms and torso, the ridges of its bones cutting through the scaled hide to form an exoskeleton on its chest. Sharp bone ridges thrust up from its neck and shoulders. Its powerful dinosaur tail snapped from side to side.
Dizziness swirled through me, tiny black dots drifting before my eyes. I had to run away now or I would pass out.
The demon leaped over the concrete barrier separating the tollway from the exit lane. The hooves clattered as they touched the pavement. A ragged hood sat on its head, and within it, a horrible face looked back at me. Pale, wrinkled, with reptilian slits for a nose, it stared at the world with tilted inhuman eyes. They burned with furious violent red. Below the eyes, a wide slash of a mouth bared a forest of narrow, sharp fangs.
I flailed, yanking my legs, but the seat remained wedged. Let me out, let me out, let me out, please, dear God, let me out . . .
The demon jerked the door open.
I didn’t want to die. I would never hug my mom again. I wouldn’t see my sisters grow up. I wouldn’t be there when Bern graduated; I would never find out Leon’s magic. I would never find out if Rogan and I had a chance.
My family would be lost without me.
I wouldn’t die today. Demon or not, I’ll be damned if I lay there, petrified, and let him rip the life out of me. Not today. Not ever.
The demon locked his hand on my throat, pulling me toward him. The monstrous face leaned in, the mouth opening wider, teeth glistening, the red burning eyes excited as he squeezed my throat, cutting off my air.
Lie, my magic whispered.
I clamped both hands on its neck and pushed with all my power. Agony exploded in my shoulders, shot down my arms, and burst into a feathery lightning, biting deep into the demon’s flesh. The creature in my arms screamed, but the shocker’s lightning held it tight and I strained harder, forcing the full reserve of my magic into his flesh.
The scales turned transparent, betraying a glimpse of human skin underneath. Not a demon. An illusion mage. You bastard! Fry, you sonovabitch. Fry.
The illusion broke, a curtain jerked aside, and a man’s face screamed at me, big mouth contorted with pain.
A glowing thread swam across my vision. I had to let go or I’d kill myself.
I unclamped my hands from the man’s neck. He crashed down on top of me. I hit the seat with my side, the dead weight of his body pinning me, nearly crushing me. My back crunched. His feet in black boots drummed the air as he convulsed on top of me. There was nowhere to go. Thick pink foam slid from his lips. I shoved him back as hard as I could and he sagged on the side of the seat, halfway into the car.
I had no idea if he’d survived that. I had to be sure.
My nose was running. Tears rolled down my face, but the panic vanished. I finally saw my gun on the floor, out of my reach.
I gripped the seat and stood straight up, bending forward. My knees popped. I leaned on the left foot and used my weight to wrench the right leg free.
Faint tremors shook the mage’s legs. If he lived . . .
I jerked my left leg free, dove across the seat, grabbed my gun, and fired three bullets into the left side of the mage’s chest. Well, if he wasn’t dead, he definitely wasn’t happy. Great, I’ve turned into my mother. That’s what she would say.
The 4Runner hadn’t moved. Its driver door was still open. Nobody shot at me. Nobody followed the illusion mage.
I grabbed the corpse by the dark long hair and raised his head to see his face. A man in his thirties, tan, sharp-featured, wearing a black T-shirt, a trench coat, and black tactical-gear pants. Never seen him before.
I was a licensed private investigator involved in an accident. The tollbooth camera had likely recorded the crash. All my training said I had to call it in and hold tight until the cops and first responders got here. If Troy had a neck injury and I moved him, he could end up paralyzed. He could be bleeding to death internally.
But Troy and I were sitting ducks here. If that semi came back and rammed us again, there would be nothing left but a metal pancake and a bloody spot. Right now whoever had sent the illusion mage thought he was taking care of the job. If I called authorities for help and he somehow listened in, he would know we weren’t dead. There was no telling who would show up.
I grabbed the corpse by the T-shirt and yanked it deeper into the car. So heavy. The T-shirt ripped. Damn it. I hooked my hands into his armpits and heaved, lifting with my legs. Finally, the body gave and slid forward. I rolled him on his side, bent his knees, and slammed the passenger door closed. So far so good. I popped the right rear door open, keeping the Range Rover between me and the highway, and got into the front passenger seat.
Troy didn’t move. No blood. No obvious injuries. I unlocked his seat belt and checked his pulse again. Still alive.
The impact of the crash had crushed the left side of the Range Rover. Most of the hood was almost intact, but the entire driver door looked out of commission. There was no way to open it. I had to move him from inside the cab.
A truck tore past us and swerved to avoid the 4Runner parked on the shoulder. The vehicle showed no signs of life. I could’ve sworn I’d seen two people in it.
I found the switch on the side of the front passenger seat and flipped it, pushing on the seat’s back to flatten it as much as it would go.
Behind us a blue SUV took an exit lane, then veered sharply back onto the tollway before my heart had a chance to jump out of my chest.
I grabbed Troy and gently, an inch at a time, began to slide him over on to the flattened seat, trying not to jostle him. I pulled and heaved until finally he slid in.
The empty driver’s seat gaped at me. I climbed over Troy and landed in it. My feet barely reached the pedals. The switch moving the seat forward didn’t respond. I perched on the edge of the seat, pressed the brake pedal, and pushed the engine-start button.
Start. Please, please, please start.
The engine roared to life. There was no sweeter sound.
I put the car into reverse. The Range Rover’s door screeched, parting with the booth, and then suddenly we were free. The engine sputtered. I floored it. The warehouse was fifteen minutes away. I turned on
Hammerly, made a left on Triway, and zigzagged through the labyrinth of small streets as the rain poured on, flooding the pavement.
Minutes stretched by, slow and sluggish, the Range Rover coughing and creaking, threatening to die any second. Time turned viscous. I kept checking the rearview mirror. No semis.
Troy stirred in the seat. I glanced at him. He was blinking quickly and tried to sit up.
“Stay down,” I told him.
He did.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Back of the head. My vision is blurry. What happened?”
“I’m taking you home,” I said.
“Need to notify . . .” He patted down his pocket.
“Don’t move,” I told him. “We’re almost there. Rogan has a team watching our house. One of them has to be an EMT.”
“Call it in.”
“When we’re safe.”
Streets flashed by. Gessner. Kempwood. When our street appeared out of the rain, I almost cried. I drove around the warehouse to the back. One of the massive industrial garage doors gaped open, and I steered the Range Rover inside, screeching to a stop a foot from the bumper of an armored Hummer.
“What in blazes . . .” Grandma Frida stepped out from behind the Hummer, a wrench in her hands. She saw the mangled side of the Range Rover and saw my face. I must’ve looked bloodless, because my seventy-two-year-old grandmother sprinted across the floor to hit the button on the door remote. The reinforced door clanged down, cutting off the world outside.
I ran into the living portion of the warehouse as Grandma Frida grabbed the med kit out of one of the metal cages. Cartoon noises floated from the media room. I stuck my head in. Arabella, blonde and short, sprawled on the couch. Catalina, taller, thinner, and dark-haired, sat on the floor among a scattering of brushes and hair ties. Matilda sat on the floor in front of her, between Bunny and a large seal-point Himalayan cat. One half of her hair was twisted into an elaborate braid.
Everyone looked at me.
I forced a smile on my face. “Matilda, where is your dad?”
“He’s taking a nap,” she said.
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