Ilona Andrews - Wildfire

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 don’t know me,” she said. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“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.