White Hot
Page 62
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” I lied. “Go on with the story.”
“Not much left. I officially broke off the engagement at eighteen. They held on to hope for another year, but when I joined the military, it was clear that all bets were off. Rynda married her now husband within six months. He is uninterested in politics and risky games, and by all indications he loves her.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No. She’s happy and I need somebody else. Someone who doesn’t crack under my pressure.”
True. “That’s a tall order.”
His face turned thoughtful. “Do you remember that big speech I made in your garage?”
“Which one?” I sighed. “You’ve made several. I’m contemplating installing a personal soapbox with your name on it.”
“The one where I said you would beg to climb into my bed?”
“Ah. That one. How could I forget? I kept waiting for you to pound your chest like a silverback gorilla.”
“Forget what I said—”
A speaker came on and Bug’s voice resonated through the room. “Nevada, wake up. Bern says call him back right now. It’s urgent.”
I grabbed my phone from the side table. Someone had turned the ringer off. I dialed Bernard.
“Yes?”
“Montgomery is on a video call in your office,” he said. “He’s pissed off. I tried to tell him you’ll call back, but he’s holding the line open.”
Something bad had happened.
I jumped off the couch and spotted my shoes on the side. I pulled them on. Rogan watched me.
“Trouble?”
“Probably.”
“Do you need help?”
“No.” Augustine knew where I was. He didn’t call here, which meant whatever new emergency had occurred was for me and me alone. I would handle my own affairs.
I looked up at him. He was back to the familiar icy Prime, intense, hard, and lethal.
“If I become a Prime, will you be my enemy, Rogan?”
“No,” he said. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
I dashed into the warehouse. A blue Honda CR-V was sitting in my parking lot. Bern met me at the door.
I pointed to the Honda. “Do we have a client?”
“No.” Bern’s face took on that collected expression that usually meant he was about to methodically recite a sequence of events that led to the Honda being in the parking spot and would probably start his story right around the Great Flood.
I held up my hand, hoping to stave off the flow of information. “Later. What the hell is Augustine pissed about?”
“This might be it.” Bern held up his tablet. A headline crossed it: “The Question of the Lady in Green: Should Primes Do More?”
Just what I needed. I landed in my office chair, pulled my hair back the best I could, and pushed the key on the keyboard.
“Yes?”
Augustine’s perfect face was so cold it might as well have been carved of a glacier. “Congratulations, Lady in Green.”
Damn it.
“Your altruism bore rotten fruit. I told you so.”
“It’s one lousy article, Augustine.”
“I’m not talking about the article.”
I leaned back and crossed my arms on my chest. “Will you please speed this up?”
“Victoria Tremaine’s people contacted my office. She is on her way to Houston to see me. She’s asking for the identity of the Lady in Green.”
I sat up straighter. Ages ago when I first realized I was a truthseeker, I looked up truthseeker Houses. There were three in the continental United States, and House Tremaine was the smallest and the most feared. It had only one Prime: Victoria Tremaine. She was near seventy and people hid when they heard she was coming. She didn’t just pull the truth out of her victims; she could lobotomize them and frequently did. Rich and feared, she wielded unprecedented power. I remembered looking at her picture—a tall aristocratic woman with vicious eyes—and thought she looked like some evil witch. The kind that had a noble title and ordered you skinned alive if you happened to spill a drink while serving it to her.
“I have no desire to upset Tremaine,” Augustine said. “Neither do I want her anywhere near my office, but I can’t simply not see her. You have this one opportunity to tell me why she would be interested in you.”
“I have no idea.”
“Make sure you figure it out. If you need protection from Tremaine, you must sign the contract I offered you. My House will defend its own. You have . . .” He checked the computer screen. “Twenty-two hours.”
The screen went black. I looked at Bern. He raised his arms.
If Augustine met Victoria Tremaine, she would pull my identity out of his head. I was a baby Prime, and I’d managed to get Baranovsky to admit things to me. Victoria had a lifetime of practice. Why would she be interested?
A terrible suspicion ignited in my head. If Rogan was right, and I was a Prime, my talents had to come from somewhere. Spontaneous manifestations of Primes without anyone in their immediate family possessing a lot of power were extremely rare.
“Is Mom home?”
Bernard nodded. “Nevada, about the car . . .”
“Later.”
I got up and walked through the hallway into our house and to the kitchen. My mother was at the sink, rinsing a plate. Arabella lounged at the table, playing with her phone.
My mother took in my hair. “Eventful night?”
“Is there any reason Victoria Tremaine would be interested in me?”
My mother’s face turned white. The plate slipped out of her hands and shattered on the floor.
“Mom!” Arabella jumped up.
“Leave the room.” Her voice turned cold and harsh.
Arabella blinked. “Mom, what’s wron . . .”
“Now.”
My sister took off, her eyes opened wide. Mom fixed Bern with a thousand-yard stare. He retreated without a word.
My mother slowly wiped her hands with a towel. Her face turned rigid and calculating. I had only seen that expression once, when she had become a total stranger and ended her PI career. Fear squirmed through me.
“What did you do?” she asked, her voice eerily calm.
“I saved a little girl. Amy Madrid.”
“Who knows?”
“Augustine and his secretary. Mom, you’re scaring me.”
“Is Victoria on her way to the city?”
“Yes.”
“When is she arriving?”
“Tomorrow.”
My mother hung the towel on a rack with methodical precision. “Listen to me very carefully. You have to wipe Augustine’s mind.”
“What?”
“You have to wipe Augustine’s mind. Fry him if you have to.”
I recoiled. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do? Even if I did know how to do it—and I don’t—it would turn him into a vegetable.”
“You can do it,” my mother said with complete confidence.
She’d turned into someone I didn’t recognize.
“I know him. He is a human being. I can’t just break his mind. I won’t.”
“No,” I lied. “Go on with the story.”
“Not much left. I officially broke off the engagement at eighteen. They held on to hope for another year, but when I joined the military, it was clear that all bets were off. Rynda married her now husband within six months. He is uninterested in politics and risky games, and by all indications he loves her.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No. She’s happy and I need somebody else. Someone who doesn’t crack under my pressure.”
True. “That’s a tall order.”
His face turned thoughtful. “Do you remember that big speech I made in your garage?”
“Which one?” I sighed. “You’ve made several. I’m contemplating installing a personal soapbox with your name on it.”
“The one where I said you would beg to climb into my bed?”
“Ah. That one. How could I forget? I kept waiting for you to pound your chest like a silverback gorilla.”
“Forget what I said—”
A speaker came on and Bug’s voice resonated through the room. “Nevada, wake up. Bern says call him back right now. It’s urgent.”
I grabbed my phone from the side table. Someone had turned the ringer off. I dialed Bernard.
“Yes?”
“Montgomery is on a video call in your office,” he said. “He’s pissed off. I tried to tell him you’ll call back, but he’s holding the line open.”
Something bad had happened.
I jumped off the couch and spotted my shoes on the side. I pulled them on. Rogan watched me.
“Trouble?”
“Probably.”
“Do you need help?”
“No.” Augustine knew where I was. He didn’t call here, which meant whatever new emergency had occurred was for me and me alone. I would handle my own affairs.
I looked up at him. He was back to the familiar icy Prime, intense, hard, and lethal.
“If I become a Prime, will you be my enemy, Rogan?”
“No,” he said. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
I dashed into the warehouse. A blue Honda CR-V was sitting in my parking lot. Bern met me at the door.
I pointed to the Honda. “Do we have a client?”
“No.” Bern’s face took on that collected expression that usually meant he was about to methodically recite a sequence of events that led to the Honda being in the parking spot and would probably start his story right around the Great Flood.
I held up my hand, hoping to stave off the flow of information. “Later. What the hell is Augustine pissed about?”
“This might be it.” Bern held up his tablet. A headline crossed it: “The Question of the Lady in Green: Should Primes Do More?”
Just what I needed. I landed in my office chair, pulled my hair back the best I could, and pushed the key on the keyboard.
“Yes?”
Augustine’s perfect face was so cold it might as well have been carved of a glacier. “Congratulations, Lady in Green.”
Damn it.
“Your altruism bore rotten fruit. I told you so.”
“It’s one lousy article, Augustine.”
“I’m not talking about the article.”
I leaned back and crossed my arms on my chest. “Will you please speed this up?”
“Victoria Tremaine’s people contacted my office. She is on her way to Houston to see me. She’s asking for the identity of the Lady in Green.”
I sat up straighter. Ages ago when I first realized I was a truthseeker, I looked up truthseeker Houses. There were three in the continental United States, and House Tremaine was the smallest and the most feared. It had only one Prime: Victoria Tremaine. She was near seventy and people hid when they heard she was coming. She didn’t just pull the truth out of her victims; she could lobotomize them and frequently did. Rich and feared, she wielded unprecedented power. I remembered looking at her picture—a tall aristocratic woman with vicious eyes—and thought she looked like some evil witch. The kind that had a noble title and ordered you skinned alive if you happened to spill a drink while serving it to her.
“I have no desire to upset Tremaine,” Augustine said. “Neither do I want her anywhere near my office, but I can’t simply not see her. You have this one opportunity to tell me why she would be interested in you.”
“I have no idea.”
“Make sure you figure it out. If you need protection from Tremaine, you must sign the contract I offered you. My House will defend its own. You have . . .” He checked the computer screen. “Twenty-two hours.”
The screen went black. I looked at Bern. He raised his arms.
If Augustine met Victoria Tremaine, she would pull my identity out of his head. I was a baby Prime, and I’d managed to get Baranovsky to admit things to me. Victoria had a lifetime of practice. Why would she be interested?
A terrible suspicion ignited in my head. If Rogan was right, and I was a Prime, my talents had to come from somewhere. Spontaneous manifestations of Primes without anyone in their immediate family possessing a lot of power were extremely rare.
“Is Mom home?”
Bernard nodded. “Nevada, about the car . . .”
“Later.”
I got up and walked through the hallway into our house and to the kitchen. My mother was at the sink, rinsing a plate. Arabella lounged at the table, playing with her phone.
My mother took in my hair. “Eventful night?”
“Is there any reason Victoria Tremaine would be interested in me?”
My mother’s face turned white. The plate slipped out of her hands and shattered on the floor.
“Mom!” Arabella jumped up.
“Leave the room.” Her voice turned cold and harsh.
Arabella blinked. “Mom, what’s wron . . .”
“Now.”
My sister took off, her eyes opened wide. Mom fixed Bern with a thousand-yard stare. He retreated without a word.
My mother slowly wiped her hands with a towel. Her face turned rigid and calculating. I had only seen that expression once, when she had become a total stranger and ended her PI career. Fear squirmed through me.
“What did you do?” she asked, her voice eerily calm.
“I saved a little girl. Amy Madrid.”
“Who knows?”
“Augustine and his secretary. Mom, you’re scaring me.”
“Is Victoria on her way to the city?”
“Yes.”
“When is she arriving?”
“Tomorrow.”
My mother hung the towel on a rack with methodical precision. “Listen to me very carefully. You have to wipe Augustine’s mind.”
“What?”
“You have to wipe Augustine’s mind. Fry him if you have to.”
I recoiled. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do? Even if I did know how to do it—and I don’t—it would turn him into a vegetable.”
“You can do it,” my mother said with complete confidence.
She’d turned into someone I didn’t recognize.
“I know him. He is a human being. I can’t just break his mind. I won’t.”
