Wildfire
Page 11
She turned around and marched out, her human Rottweilers in tow.
“Well, that was tense,” Linus Duncan said. He opened a billfold, took a card out of his wallet, and offered it to me. It had no name, only a phone number. “In case you need help or advice. Call any time.”
“Thank you.” I took the card.
The darkness vanished. The Keeper smiled at me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Baylor. We’ll be watching you. We’ll be there in case of any problems, won’t we, Michael?”
Michael nodded.
Rogan and I didn’t speak the whole way to the car. Outside, the sun had set and the bottomless Texas sky spread above us, an upside-down black ocean studded with stars. We got into the car, and Rogan drove out of the parking lot.
The night city slid past my window while the whole scene kept replaying in my head over and over: petitioning, my name in calligraphy on the page of an ancient book, the raptor stare of my grandmother, the living darkness on the ceiling . . . It didn’t seem real, as if it had happened to someone else.
I glanced at Rogan. There was this odd distance between us. He was there, in the car with me, but he seemed contained, as if I were a stranger.
“She called you?” I asked finally.
“She left a message,” he said.
I waited but he didn’t elaborate. “What did she say?”
“That if I helped her bring you into House Tremaine, she would give you to me.”
“Nice. And was I just supposed to go along with that plan?”
“You would if she had your sisters. Or your mother.” His voice was casual. “Holding a knife to your mother’s throat would make you very agreeable.”
Connor was gone, and I got Mad Rogan instead: cold, calculating, cruel when he had to be.
“And the Scroll?”
“The Scroll is one of the three main DNA databases,” he said. “You will be required to submit a sample to the Keeper to prove that you and Catalina are sisters. Once the sample is submitted, you must choose a database. They will sequence your entire family.”
“Is it used for genetic matches for future spouses?”
“Primarily, yes. Also in cases when paternity is in doubt.”
The gulf between us was getting wider. He was pulling back from me. He was still thinking about children and matches. Was he trying to give me an out?
“Please pull over,” I said.
He guided the car onto the shoulder. I unbuckled my seat belt, reached over, and kissed him. His lips were like fire. He didn’t respond, but I tried harder, licking his lips with the tip of my tongue, wanting to taste him.
His seat belt snapped free. He caught the back of my head with his hand and claimed my mouth. His magic wrapped around me, mixing with mine. The taste of Connor, the heady intoxicating taste that burned with lust, power, and need, filled me, and I drank it in, melting into it. The strokes of his tongue turned possessive, his fingers tangled in my hair, holding me to him. There was a hint of menace in the way he kissed that warned me that when I tasted dragon fire, I’d get burned and then I would never be the same. It made me want to strip and climb naked on top of him.
Magic slid over the back of my neck, like molten honey, sizzling pleasure on my skin. I gasped into his mouth.
“You’re mine,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m not letting you go.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up.”
“Do you understand me, Nevada? I’m not walking away. I thought I could, but I can’t and I don’t want to.”
I brushed his cheek with my fingertips. “What makes you think I would let you go?”
He pulled me to him, and I climbed over, onto his lap. He kissed my neck. Magic swirled along my spine, a heated bliss. I wanted him between my legs. I wanted him inside . . .
There were blue and red lights behind us.
Rogan growled.
A cop was walking toward us, a flashlight in his hand.
I crawled back into my seat and put my hand over my face.
Rogan rolled down the window. “Yes, Officer?”
“Is your vehicle disabled, Mr. Rogan?”
“No,” Rogan growled.
“Then you should move along. The road is dark, and you’re presenting a safety hazard.”
Wow. Apparently we’d run into the one cop in Houston who wasn’t intimidated by the Butcher of Merida.
“Ms. Baylor,” the cop said. “DA Jordan says hello.”
Oh.
“Please move your vehicle for the safety of the public.” The cop stepped back. He showed no signs of leaving.
Rogan rolled the window up, we both put our seat belts on, and we pulled back into traffic.
Lenora Jordan, the Harris County District Attorney. When I was in high school, she was my hero. Incorruptible, uncompromising, she served as the last line of the public’s defense against crime, especially when committed by the Houses. The first time I saw her was on TV, years ago; she walked down the steps of the courthouse, where a raging fulgurkinetic Prime wrapped in a web of lightning refused to be arraigned on charges of child molestation. Lenora strode right up to him, summoned chains from thin air, and bound him, right there, in front of all the cameras. And then she dragged him into court.
I never thought I would meet her, but I did. She was everything she seemed, and she scared the living daylights out of me. Even Rogan treated her with the kind of respect one affords to a hungry tiger.
“Was that a love tap on the shoulder?” I asked. “To tell me she knows we’re filing?”
“Yes. Come home with me tonight.”
“I can’t. A lot has happened and I need to be with my family. They’ll have questions.”
“I’ll wait.”
“I don’t know how long it will take.”
“I’ll wait,” he repeated.
I would give almost anything to go with him. He would take me to his bedroom, strip off my clothes, and love me until I couldn’t even think anymore. I would fall asleep wrapped in him, with his muscular arm around me, and his hot hard chest pressing against my back, and in the morning we’d wake up and make love again. Saying no hurt. Physically hurt. “Rogan . . .”
“Nevada?” My name rolling off his lips was a caress.
“I just turned my family’s life upside down. Everything is in shambles. I need to be there tonight. If one of my sisters knocks on my door at two in the morning, I want to be there to reassure her. If my mom isn’t able to go to sleep and comes checking on me in the middle of the night, I want to be there. And I can’t do that if I’m over at your place, and you can’t be at mine, because you make me moan and scream, and that’s not what my family needs to hear.”
“Well, that was tense,” Linus Duncan said. He opened a billfold, took a card out of his wallet, and offered it to me. It had no name, only a phone number. “In case you need help or advice. Call any time.”
“Thank you.” I took the card.
The darkness vanished. The Keeper smiled at me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Baylor. We’ll be watching you. We’ll be there in case of any problems, won’t we, Michael?”
Michael nodded.
Rogan and I didn’t speak the whole way to the car. Outside, the sun had set and the bottomless Texas sky spread above us, an upside-down black ocean studded with stars. We got into the car, and Rogan drove out of the parking lot.
The night city slid past my window while the whole scene kept replaying in my head over and over: petitioning, my name in calligraphy on the page of an ancient book, the raptor stare of my grandmother, the living darkness on the ceiling . . . It didn’t seem real, as if it had happened to someone else.
I glanced at Rogan. There was this odd distance between us. He was there, in the car with me, but he seemed contained, as if I were a stranger.
“She called you?” I asked finally.
“She left a message,” he said.
I waited but he didn’t elaborate. “What did she say?”
“That if I helped her bring you into House Tremaine, she would give you to me.”
“Nice. And was I just supposed to go along with that plan?”
“You would if she had your sisters. Or your mother.” His voice was casual. “Holding a knife to your mother’s throat would make you very agreeable.”
Connor was gone, and I got Mad Rogan instead: cold, calculating, cruel when he had to be.
“And the Scroll?”
“The Scroll is one of the three main DNA databases,” he said. “You will be required to submit a sample to the Keeper to prove that you and Catalina are sisters. Once the sample is submitted, you must choose a database. They will sequence your entire family.”
“Is it used for genetic matches for future spouses?”
“Primarily, yes. Also in cases when paternity is in doubt.”
The gulf between us was getting wider. He was pulling back from me. He was still thinking about children and matches. Was he trying to give me an out?
“Please pull over,” I said.
He guided the car onto the shoulder. I unbuckled my seat belt, reached over, and kissed him. His lips were like fire. He didn’t respond, but I tried harder, licking his lips with the tip of my tongue, wanting to taste him.
His seat belt snapped free. He caught the back of my head with his hand and claimed my mouth. His magic wrapped around me, mixing with mine. The taste of Connor, the heady intoxicating taste that burned with lust, power, and need, filled me, and I drank it in, melting into it. The strokes of his tongue turned possessive, his fingers tangled in my hair, holding me to him. There was a hint of menace in the way he kissed that warned me that when I tasted dragon fire, I’d get burned and then I would never be the same. It made me want to strip and climb naked on top of him.
Magic slid over the back of my neck, like molten honey, sizzling pleasure on my skin. I gasped into his mouth.
“You’re mine,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m not letting you go.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up.”
“Do you understand me, Nevada? I’m not walking away. I thought I could, but I can’t and I don’t want to.”
I brushed his cheek with my fingertips. “What makes you think I would let you go?”
He pulled me to him, and I climbed over, onto his lap. He kissed my neck. Magic swirled along my spine, a heated bliss. I wanted him between my legs. I wanted him inside . . .
There were blue and red lights behind us.
Rogan growled.
A cop was walking toward us, a flashlight in his hand.
I crawled back into my seat and put my hand over my face.
Rogan rolled down the window. “Yes, Officer?”
“Is your vehicle disabled, Mr. Rogan?”
“No,” Rogan growled.
“Then you should move along. The road is dark, and you’re presenting a safety hazard.”
Wow. Apparently we’d run into the one cop in Houston who wasn’t intimidated by the Butcher of Merida.
“Ms. Baylor,” the cop said. “DA Jordan says hello.”
Oh.
“Please move your vehicle for the safety of the public.” The cop stepped back. He showed no signs of leaving.
Rogan rolled the window up, we both put our seat belts on, and we pulled back into traffic.
Lenora Jordan, the Harris County District Attorney. When I was in high school, she was my hero. Incorruptible, uncompromising, she served as the last line of the public’s defense against crime, especially when committed by the Houses. The first time I saw her was on TV, years ago; she walked down the steps of the courthouse, where a raging fulgurkinetic Prime wrapped in a web of lightning refused to be arraigned on charges of child molestation. Lenora strode right up to him, summoned chains from thin air, and bound him, right there, in front of all the cameras. And then she dragged him into court.
I never thought I would meet her, but I did. She was everything she seemed, and she scared the living daylights out of me. Even Rogan treated her with the kind of respect one affords to a hungry tiger.
“Was that a love tap on the shoulder?” I asked. “To tell me she knows we’re filing?”
“Yes. Come home with me tonight.”
“I can’t. A lot has happened and I need to be with my family. They’ll have questions.”
“I’ll wait.”
“I don’t know how long it will take.”
“I’ll wait,” he repeated.
I would give almost anything to go with him. He would take me to his bedroom, strip off my clothes, and love me until I couldn’t even think anymore. I would fall asleep wrapped in him, with his muscular arm around me, and his hot hard chest pressing against my back, and in the morning we’d wake up and make love again. Saying no hurt. Physically hurt. “Rogan . . .”
“Nevada?” My name rolling off his lips was a caress.
“I just turned my family’s life upside down. Everything is in shambles. I need to be there tonight. If one of my sisters knocks on my door at two in the morning, I want to be there to reassure her. If my mom isn’t able to go to sleep and comes checking on me in the middle of the night, I want to be there. And I can’t do that if I’m over at your place, and you can’t be at mine, because you make me moan and scream, and that’s not what my family needs to hear.”
