Wildfire by Ilona Andrews
Arcane circles were used for everything, from fine-tuning a mage’s power to channeling magic into a particular spell. They had to be drawn by hand or they lost their power, which was why most Primes trained in circlework as soon as they could hold a piece of chalk in their fingers. I wasn’t most Primes. Drawing a circle on the floor was remarkably difficult. Drawing a charging circle was somewhere between the seventh and ninth levels of hell. It started as a large circle, with a smaller circle inside, three small circles inside that inner circle, drawn side by side so they formed a triangle, and then three outer circles exactly opposite of the inner circles. It took me twenty minutes and by the time I was done, my back hurt and I had said enough cuss words to make Bug, who came to hang out with me, raise his eyebrows. At least I got to raid Rogan’s kitchen counter and devour an apple bear claw before I started.
Finally, I stripped down to a sports bra and spandex shorts to maximize the charge, stepped into the circle, and sat. My power shot through the circle. The chalk lines pulsed with white and faded. Magic flowed to me, sluggish at first, then a steady current, slipping into my body. I relaxed and closed my eyes.
“This one is crooked,” Bug advised.
I opened my eyes and looked at the circle he was pointing at.
“It will be fine.”
“You could’ve just asked the Major.”
If Rogan had drawn the design, it would’ve taken him three minutes and all the circles would have been perfect. “I have to draw my own circles.”
I glanced to the left. The second floor had a wide industrial door, which opened onto a large square patio of sealed concrete, flooded with sunlight. The doors stood ajar and I could see Rogan. He’d drawn circles on the concrete and moved within them, lunging, kicking, and striking, his large muscular body graceful and flexible. His grace wasn’t that of a dancer but of an assassin trained to lock onto his target and pursue it at all costs. His feet were weapons; his hands cut like blades, then struck like hammers, breaking his invisible opponents. The Key of House Rogan was a warrior key, and when he moved through it, the savage, fierce thing that made him Mad Rogan surfaced and took over. It scared me and pulled me like a magnet, which is why I drew my charging circle here, so I could watch him.
I was hoping to watch him in privacy. But Bug parked himself on the sofa right behind me, with Napoleon tucked under his arm and the laptop resting on his lap. Ogling Rogan under these circumstances would be slightly creepy. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the magic emanating from the circle like heat from the asphalt on a scorching Texas day.
“Is everything okay?” Bug asked.
“Mhm.”
“You and him are on good terms?”
“Mhm.”
“So you’re talking?”
Damn it. I opened my eyes and looked at him over my shoulder.
“Good communication is important in a relationship,” Bug said.
“Everything is fine.”
“You’re not fighting anymore?”
“No. I’m trying to recharge. I need to concentrate.”
Bug nodded solemnly.
I turned back, savored the glimpse of Rogan, and closed my eyes.
“How’s the sex?”
“Did you honestly just ask me that question?”
Bug and Napoleon scooted further away from me on the sofa. “We just want to know that everything’s okay.”
“We?”
“Uh . . . Napoleon and I.”
Lie. “Bug, turn that laptop toward me and don’t you dare hit any keys.”
He hugged the laptop. “No.”
“Is that Nguyen and Rivera on the other end?”
“No.”
Lie.
“Here, I’ll say it really loud so they can hear. Are you ready? Butt out of our relationship!”
“Okay, okay!” He waved his arms.
“If you really want to help, brief me on the Harcourts.”
“What’s there to brief? Owen Harcourt, sixty, Ella Harcourt, fifty-five, Alyssa Harcourt, twenty-three, and Liam Harcourt, eighteen. Everyone is a Prime summoner. It’s going to be a bloodbath.”
“Fine. I’m going to concentrate now, so hush.”
I closed my eyes. For a few minutes, blissful silence reigned and I sank deeper into the stream of magic.
“Incoming,” Bug announced.
I turned. Rynda came up the stairs, crossed the room, and sat on the other sofa. She wore black designer jeans and a pink silk wrap blouse that demurely covered her breasts while simultaneously dipping far between them. Bug pretended to ignore her. Napoleon gave Rynda the evil eye.
Rynda studied my circlework and very carefully didn’t say anything. Yes, I know. It’s crooked.
I sat quietly. Minutes stretched. Bug typed on his laptop, hitting the keys so loud, I could hear him from several feet away.
“Are you going with Rogan to fight the Harcourts?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Is that wise?”
“Rogan will need my help when we question them.”
“The Harcourts have a reputation,” Rynda said. “It will be brutal. You’re not a combat mage.”
“Thank you for your concern. I’ll be fine.”
She fell silent, then glanced at Bug. “Could you get me some coffee?”
“No,” Bug said.
She blinked.
“I’m a surveillance specialist, not a waiter,” Bug said, his diction perfect, his voice flat. “The coffee is on the kitchen counter over there. Help yourself.”
She opened her mouth and closed it.
“Nevada?” Bug said.
Don’t do it, don’t do it . . .
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Ass.
“Because I’ll totally get it for you.”
Rynda got up and walked to the kitchen counter, glancing in Rogan’s direction for a moment.
“You’re being cruel,” I murmured.
“Sue me,” Bug whispered back.
Rynda came back with a cup of coffee and sat on the couch. Bug resumed his aggressive typing. Rynda studied him for a long moment and cleared her throat. Bug showed no signs of moving. All this tension was distracting me.
“Is Kyle feeling better this morning?”
She startled. “Yes.”
“Glad to hear it.” There. A little less tense.
“I didn’t realize you were there when I called Connor.”
And we’re back to awkward. Great.
I smiled at her and watched Rogan through the window.
“I understand that you and Connor have a relationship,” Rynda said. “But I need him more than you right now. I hope you understand.”
Oh no. No. “Rogan and I have something.” I kept my voice as gentle as possible. “You are not a part of it.”
“I’ve known him a lot longer than you.”
“And I understand that Brian is gone and you’re scared. But Rogan won’t be anyone’s plan B. He isn’t a backup option.”
“Is that a threat?”
I sighed. “No. I’m not going to threaten you. You’re my client and you’ve been through a pressure cooker. This isn’t a ‘back away from my man’ conversation. I’m simply telling you that what Rogan and I have is genuine. I don’t blame you for trying and if you somehow succeeded, I wouldn’t be as angry with you as with him. That’s not my point.”
Her lips were pressed together so hard, they were almost bloodless. “What is your point?”
“Suppose for a moment that you get Rogan to somehow become involved with you. Then what?”
She didn’t answer.
“Were you relieved when he broke the engagement?”
“That’s a private matter.”
“You were relieved, because you didn’t really want him. He is volatile and frightening. You want the security his presence provides, but you don’t love the man who creates it.” But I did. I loved him and all his volatility.
“You asked what my point was. Here is my answer: if you continue to rely on others for that security, you will never find it. You’re a Prime, a woman, and a mother. Make yourself secure. Take charge of yourself. My circlework may be shaky and crooked, but it’s mine. I taught myself how to do it by studying books and now I’m using it. I didn’t ask Rogan to draw it for me, because I didn’t have to.”
Rynda rose, her coffee in her hands, walked over to the open doors, and stood on the left side, watching Rogan power through the final motions of the Key. He finished and walked into the room, nodding to Rynda. “Morning.”
“Nobody here likes me, Rogan,” she said, her voice soft and broken. “Your people don’t like me.”
“They don’t have to like you,” he said. “They will, however, protect you and your children with their lives.”
“I feel like an invader.”
“You’re not an invader. You’re here at my invitation.”
She hugged herself. “Can I talk to you? Privately.”
He invited her to the patio with a sweep of his hand. She walked into the sunshine, and he followed. They strode to the edge, Rynda saying something, an urgent look on her face.
“I can tell you what she’s saying,” Bug said.
“Thanks, but no.”
“It would just take a second. Two keys.” He raised his laptop and waved it at me. “It’s not rocket surgery.”
“No.”
Bug heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t you want to know?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t matter. I trust Rogan.”
I closed my eyes and let the magic flow into me.
“Nevada?” Rogan’s voice pulled me out of the deep well of magic inside the circle.
I opened my eyes. He was crouched by me. He wore an army combat uniform, but instead of the familiar camouflage pattern or the darker woodland/jungle variant, his uniform was black and grey. A black tactical vest hugged his chest. A sophisticated communication set curved around his neck in a collar-like shield, with the thin filament of the mic stretching to his lips. Another man stood next to him, about my mother’s age, probably Japanese, broad-shouldered, but not bulky. Greying hair, trimmed so short he was almost bald, a short neat beard and mustache, and piercing dark eyes. He wore the regular urban camo ACU and he held himself like he’d spent the best part of his life in some sort of uniform.
“We got the Verona Exception,” Rogan said. “Are you ready?”
Magic coursed through me, strong and potent. I felt tighter, more focused. I would’ve liked another couple of hours, but it would have to do. I got up.
Bug held up a stack of clothes for me: socks, boots, the same uniform as Rogan, but instead of black, my ACU was patterned in shades of grey and beige. The urban variant. Also a helmet.
“Are we going to war?”
“As close to war as we’re allowed,” Rogan said.
“I have my own clothes.”
“If you wear this, you’ll blend in with the rest of my people and lower the probability of you being singled out as a target.”
I eyed his black uniform. “You don’t mind being singled out.”
“I don’t. I’m wearing this so they will key on me. I’ll have a personal aegis.”
I could stand there and argue about the uniform, or I could just put the ACU on and stop holding everyone up. I took the stack. The older man watched me carefully.
Rogan offered me my phone. “Also, your mother has called several times.”
“Did she say what she wanted?”
“No, but it sounded urgent.”
Great. I took my phone and escaped into his office to get dressed and to call Mom.
She answered on the first ring. “What’s going on?”
“Rogan is going to attack House Harcourt.”
“He has two modified armored personnel carriers up front. I’m watching his people load them. He’s packing enough firepower to start a small war.”
“That’s the plan. Harcourts are summoners. There will be a lot of otherworldly creatures.”
“Are you going with him?”
I braced myself for an argument. “Yes.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Mom?”
“You heard me.”
She hung up.
I finished getting dressed, tightened my ballistic vest, put my helmet on, and walked out.
“My mother will be joining us.”
Rogan didn’t miss a beat. “Glad to have her.”
We went downstairs. A group of Rogan’s people in combat gear waited by the two armored personnel carriers, some in urban ACUs, some in older style camo. I had a feeling they just wore whatever felt familiar. The third vehicle, a massive heavy expanded mobility tactical truck, idled behind the two transporters, its cargo in the long, reinforced bed hidden by a green tarp.
Rivera appeared by my side and handed me a rifle.
“Ruger AC 556. Three modes of fire: semi-auto, three-round burst, and fully automatic. Major thought you might like it.”
I took the weapon and checked it over on autopilot.
My mother exited the building, carrying her Light Fifty, a Barrett M82 Sniper Rifle. Leon trotted next to her, like an overeager puppy.
“He’s coming with me,” she said. “I need a spotter.”
“Thank you for coming with us,” Rogan said.
I remembered to pick my jaw up off the floor and climbed into a personnel carrier.
Riding in a personnel carrier was about as comfortable as riding in a tank. It felt like sitting on a bag of potatoes while it bucked and jumped over every tiny bump in the road. The carrier had two rows of seats along the walls, facing each other. I sat next to Rogan toward the front. My mother and Leon rode across from us. The older Japanese man sat quietly on the other side of me, watching Leon and my mother. Further on my left, within the depths of the carrier, uniformed bodies and helmeted heads filled the space. The hum of human voices hung in the air as Rogan’s people talked. Fragments of conversation floated up, interrupted by sudden peals of laughter.
An odd expression claimed my mother’s face. The corners of her mouth had turned up slightly. The frown wrinkle between her eyebrows that had been permanently there for the last three days smoothed out. She sat relaxed, calm, and perfectly at peace, as if she was riding to a picnic at the beach. There was something almost meditative about her gaze. Next to her, Leon could barely stay in the seat. If he could, he would’ve jumped up and bounced around the carrier.
The older man next to me touched his headset and said in a deep, calm voice, “All right.”
My helmet’s comm system channeled his voice into my ears.
All conversation stopped.
“This is for the new people and those of you who didn’t pay attention. House Harcourt occupies a fortified facility. It’s U-shaped, with left and right wings protruding. The entrance is located between them. There is only one approach, through the front door, through a corridor between the two wings. This is their killing field. When we enter it, the shooters from the two wings will fire. The front gate will open, and the Harcourts will release the MCM.”
MCM stood for magically created monsters. My memory served up the mouth of a bat-ape gaping at me, about to sink its teeth into my face. A chill rolled down the back of my neck. I sat up straighter.
“The snipers, including Mrs. Baylor and her spotter, will disembark prior to engagement and take positions at the Magnolia Apartment Towers, buildings A and F. They will concentrate on taking out the shooters in the two wings of the Harcourt building. Upon arrival to the Harcourt building, the carriers will form a barricade. You will position yourselves behind that barricade. The Major will be behind you working on his circle. Melosa will shield the Major. Tom and Li Min will provide top shield for the line. House Harcourt relies on bli
What the hell was the grinder?
“No matter what nightmare comes out of those gates, you will hold the line. Am I clear?”
A chorus of voices exhaled at the same time. “Yes, Sergeant.”
“Major and Ms. Baylor are VIPs. You will keep them alive. Do you get me?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
The sergeant settled back and looked at me. “My name is Heart. Stay on me, Ms. Baylor.”
I nodded.
The carrier rumbled. Moments built into minutes. Rogan reached over and took my hand. He didn’t say anything. He just held my hand in his.
“What’s the grinder?” I asked him quietly.
“A House Rogan spell.”
House spells were of the highest order. They unleashed incredible magic, but required a lot of preparation and complex circles.
Leon was grinning to himself.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I told him.
“I won’t.” He rubbed his hands together. His smile looked positively evil.
“We’ll need to talk after this.” I looked at my mother to make sure she got the point.
“Is Heart your real name?” Leon asked the sergeant.
“It’s the name I chose.”
“Why?”
“Because I care too much,” the sergeant said.
Leon decided to shut up.
I had been in a firefight before, but this sitting still while riding to one was completely different. The urge to jump up, scream, do something hummed through my body. My rifle felt too heavy in my hands. My adrenaline was up and the fight hadn’t even started. My mother was still in her serene place. Sergeant Heart on my left had an almost identical expression on his face. Rogan on my right was smiling quietly to himself. At least Leon hadn’t gone to his happy place.
My cousin fidgeted in his seat. “Why don’t we just shoot a rocket at the building? It would be faster and easier.”
“Because the Verona Exception obligates us to avoid unnecessary loss of life,” Rogan answered. “When you blow up buildings, fallen debris and explosives don’t discriminate between combatants and civilians.”