Ilona Andrews - Wildfire

Rynda had been waiting all this time in the tender care of Bug, who was looking slightly freaked out. At least they had the presence of mind to get a cooler and fill it with ice.

“It’s not going to get fixed, is it?” Rynda asked, her voice dull. “We’re not going to get through this okay.”

“You will,” I told her. “Did Brian have pierced ears, scars, tattoos, anything that would let us confirm it’s his ear?”

“Please don’t ask me if it looks like my husband’s ear,” Rynda said in a small voice.

“Are you registered with Scroll?”

She blinked, taken aback. “Yes?”

“Please request DNA analysis on the ear. Let’s confirm it belongs to Brian.”

“Why would they send me someone else’s ear?”

And that was the million-dollar question.

“I’d like to be thorough.”

She rose. “I’ll make the call. I’m going to go check on the kids now. They don’t know. Please don’t tell them.”

“I won’t.”

I watched her go down the stairs. She seemed so frail now. I half expected her legs to give out. That poor woman.

I puzzled over the ear some more.

Bug sidled up to me. “What’s the deal with the ear?”

“I’ll tell you but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”

“I can fill this room with things I keep to myself.”

“I mean it.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Sit down.”

He sat on the couch. I took a pen off the coffee table. “Let’s say you’re restrained, so hold your hands together.”

He clamped his hands into a single fist.

I showed him the pen. “Pretend this is a knife.” I grabbed his head with one hand and moved to “cut” his ear. He jerked away.

“See?”

“This doesn’t explain anything.”

I picked the bag up gently and showed him the ear. “One precise cut. No tears, no jagged edges, no nicks. He would have to be held completely immobile while this happened. Why immobilize someone’s head like that? You can just hack the ear off.”

“Maybe they sedated him.”

“Why? He’s a botanical mage. He isn’t dangerous. Why go through the trouble? I don’t know about Sturm, but Vincent for sure would want to torment him. He gets off on control and fear. Besides, sedation is dangerous. You never know when the person might have an adverse reaction to it and die.”

Bug pondered it.

“There is another thing,” I told him.

“What?”

“Look at the ear.”

He peered at it and gave it an intense once-over. “I don’t see it.”

“I don’t either.”

He squinted at me. “Will you just say it, Nevada, you’re driving me nuts.”

“When you nick your ear, it bleeds. A lot.”

“Yes. All head wounds bleed, so?”

“Where is the blood?”

He stared at the ear. “Huh. Did they wash it?”

“If you wanted to terrify a man’s wife into paying a ransom, would you send her a bloody mutilated chunk of flesh that was hacked off his head, or would you send her this perfectly clean, surgically removed ear?”

Bug blinked. “So what does it mean?”

It meant one of two things. Either Brian was dead or it wasn’t his ear.

“And?” Bug asked.

“And I’m going home to think about it. Did you find anything on Rynda’s computers?”

“No. Bern and I have been through them last night. He’s digging deeper today. There is nothing there. Pictures of the kids, a fungi database, Rynda’s holiday recipes . . .” Bug waved his arms. “So much domestic bliss, I could puke.”

“Tell me if you find something, please.”

“No, I was going to keep it all to myself, but now that you asked me, I guess I’ll clue you in.” Bug rolled his eyes.

“One day your face will get stuck like that,” I told him.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he asked.

“I’ve had a hard day. Don’t test me, Abraham.”

He opened his mouth and closed it with a click at the name. That’s right. I do know your real name.

“That’s playing dirty.”

“It is.”

“How did you know?”

“I’m a truthseeker, remember? I could fill this whole room with things I know and keep to myself.”

I tucked the cooler with the ear under my arm and headed down the stairs. It was finally time to go home.

In theory, successful kidnapping hinged on the victim being kept alive. In practice, things went wrong. Vincent, freshly pissed off from failing to intimidate Rynda, could’ve stormed into wherever they were keeping Brian and killed him in a fit of rage. Or they did try to sedate Brian, and he died. Or he could’ve made a break for it, and they accidentally killed him. The last possibility seemed remote. By all indications, Brian wasn’t the type to run or take a dangerous decisive action. He would likely comply with all of their demands, relying on other people to solve his problems, the way he relied on his older brother to handle the business issues and on his wife to shield him from domestic struggles. Brian led a charmed life. He wouldn’t jeopardize it. Not only that, but the people who grabbed him off the streets were professionals: they forced him to stop, nabbed him, and took off in seconds. They left no traces of themselves behind, and Bug still couldn’t find them. Professionals would have kept him alive.

If this was a punishment for our attack on House Harcourt, the ear would’ve been a lot bloodier.

If it wasn’t Brian’s ear in the cooler, we were in entirely new waters. Maybe cooler heads prevailed, and Alexander Sturm and Vincent Harcourt decided not to mutilate a Prime of another House. Vincent would do it for fun, but, really, how much of an accomplishment would it be to cut off Brian’s ear? We snatched this helpless mushroom mage off the street, beat him up, and chopped off his ear. We are total badasses, fear us. If they had gotten their hands on Rogan, that would be one thing. But doing it to Brian would only generate derision from other Houses.

If they really meant to terrify Rynda, they would’ve sent her Brian’s real ear.

That left only one possibility, and I really didn’t like it.

I punched the code into the door, stepped into the warehouse, closed the door, turned, and froze.

Zeus stood six inches from me. His massive head was level with my chest. Turquoise eyes regarded me with mild curiosity. He took up the entire width of the hallway. An enormous tiger-hound from another world with teeth the size of steak knives and a fringe of tentacles at his neck.

It occurred to me that I was covered in dried blood.

I held very still. I could jump back and slam the door shut behind me, but it would cost me a second to open it. A second would be more than enough for Zeus.

“He’s friendly,” Cornelius called out from the conference room. “He just wants to say hello.”

“Cornelius . . .”

“Just treat him as a poodle.”

What was wrong with my life and how did I get to this place?

Slowly, I raised my hand and offered it to Zeus. He sniffed my fingers and nudged my palm with his wide nose.

“He’s nudging me.”

“Try petting him.”

I brushed my fingers up Zeus’ wide nose and over the blue fur on his forehead. He made a low rumbling noise that could’ve been a purr or might have been a sign that he was hungry. His tentacles moved, caught my hand, and released. He stared at the cooler in my other hand.

“No.”

Zeus blinked his mahogany eyelashes.

“No. You can’t have it.”

He opened his mouth—it split and it just kept going and going—and licked his lips.

“Absolutely not.”

I sidestepped him and carefully edged into the conference room. Bern sat at the table in front of his laptop. Fatigue overlaid his face, tugging at the corners of his eyes. As I entered, Cornelius turned away from the kitchen counter, brought two cups of coffee over, and set one in front of Bern.