Ilona Andrews - Wildfire

“Because you’re my granddaughter, you idiot.”

My phone died. What the hell, I had fully charged it in the car . . .

“Wait . . .” Victoria turned pale, looking at something past me.

I glanced over my shoulder. A darkness spread through the restaurant, expanding from the entrance, climbing over the walls, claiming the space. An ancient darkness that took me into its maw and made me still.

Michael from the Office of Records walked into the restaurant. He still wore the sharp suit and a crisp shirt, blindingly white against his tattooed neck. His hands burned with blue fire.

He didn’t look like a gangster at a funeral today. He looked like the twenty-first century Grim Reaper.

“I didn’t break the rules,” Victoria squeezed out through her clenched teeth. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She strained, locking her teeth again.

Nothing happened.

I tried to grab hold of my magic. It flowed out of me. The darkness pounced and devoured it. It hurt. The pain ripped a gasp out of me. Oh, it hurt.

Michael held up the phone. On it the Keeper of Records smiled. “But you have, twice indirectly and now in public. It is time for punishment, Victoria. So sorry.”

Michael raised his right hand. The blue fire leaped across the space and splashed onto my grandmother.

Victoria Tremaine screamed.

The blue fire poured on.

Victoria slid off the chair and dropped to the floor. They weren’t just hurting her. They were killing her.

I heard my own voice. “Stop! Please stop!”

“Michael,” the Keeper of Records said.

The blue flames ebbed. Victoria strained to breathe, her skin ashen.

“Are you asking us to stop, Ms. Baylor?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She’s my grandmother. She saved me. I don’t want to start our House with her death.”

The Keeper of Records considered it. “Is it a formal request, Ms. Baylor?”

“Yes.”

“The Office of Records will grant it, provided you will grant us a favor in return in a place and time of our choosing.”

“Don’t take it,” Victoria squeezed out, her hand on her chest, blood dripping from her fingers.

“I agree.”

“Very well,” the Keeper said. “We will see you at trials, Ms. Baylor.”

The phone went black.

Michael opened his mouth. “A mistake.”

He turned around and walked away, taking the darkness with him.

In the distance sirens wailed, getting closer.

An ambulance shot into the parking lot and screeched to a halt. Paramedics ran out, carrying a stretcher through the broken window.

I crouched by Victoria. “If I peer under Vincent’s hex, will I find your name there?”

“Yes.”

“You should run, Grandmother. I won’t shield you from the consequences.”

She bared her teeth at me. “I’m too old to run. Do what you have to do.”

My phone flared into life and screamed at me. Bug.

I swiped my fingers across it to answer.

“Get on the freeway! Get on Katy now!” Bug screamed into the phone.

“What’s going on?”

Something thumped and Catalina’s voice filled the phone. “Vincent kidnapped Kyle and Matilda! He has Matilda!”

I sprinted to the car.

“Which way on Katy?” I barked into the phone.

“West!” Bug answered.

Bern made a hard right, cutting off a Honda. The driver laid on the horn, but we were already speeding through the entrance lane. It was 11:00 a.m. Rush hour traffic. Bern merged into the densely packed lane, and we chugged forward at a breathtaking thirty miles per hour.

Adrenaline pounded through me. My skin felt hot, my whole body wound so tightly, I was like a loaded gun just waiting to pull the trigger. He took the children. That fucking scumbag. I’d twist his head off.

“What am I looking for?” I put the phone on speaker.

“A white truck,” Bug said.

You’ve got to be kidding me. “Make, model?”

“Chevy Silverado. Anywhere from 2011 to 2015.”

The second most common truck in Texas. “That’s it?”

“All I’ve got to work with is a shot from the side.”

I craned my neck. My vision, kicked by adrenaline could see three white trucks. Yelling at Bug about it would do no good. He was doing the best he could.

“What happened?”

“Edward showed up and wanted to talk to Rynda. Catalina volunteered to watch the kids. Kyle, Jessica, and Matilda wanted to play in the evac basement. We set up a fort for them in there so they wouldn’t be scared during the tornado drill. Jessica wanted to go to the bathroom, and Catalina took her, because Jessica was too shy to go upstairs by herself. Kurt was watching the kids. That dick fucker summoned something that could dig. It tunneled under the basement, broke through the floor, and grabbed Kyle and Matilda.”

Cold gripped me. “Kurt?”

“He didn’t make it.”

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Poor Kurt. Poor Leon.

“Catalina found him when they got back down there. By the time it got to me, all I caught was Vincent speeding off from Hammerly onto Sam Houston. I tracked him all the way to I-10, then lost him.”

“You sure it was him?” Bern asked.

“I saw the white cat in the window.”

Matilda never went anywhere without that cat.

We passed Addick’s Road.

“Where is Rogan?” I asked.

“Look above you,” Bug said.

I dipped my head to look out the windshield. A helicopter was flying low overhead.

“That tunnel would’ve taken awhile,” I thought out loud. “Vincent had to have watched us drill for tornados. He would’ve tunneled under there in advance and waited. He knew the exact moment.” All of which meant Vincent Harcourt or his people were watching us, or someone betrayed us. Rogan would just love that.

“Good strategy with the truck,” Bern observed in a detached way.

“Yes. Vincent knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun Rogan, so he didn’t try.” Even if Vincent had a helicopter of his own, nothing would stop Rogan from getting into striking range.

“Why Matilda?” Bern wondered.

“Because Jessica wasn’t there. Whatever creatures he sent probably knew they had to grab the boy and the girl, so they did.”

Minutes dripped by. Bern wove in and out of traffic with inch-narrow margins of error. Asking Bug if he had anything was pointless.

“Think he’s dumb enough to take the HOV lane?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t,” Bern said. “He’d be trapped in it.”

A row of white metal poles separated the High Occupancy Vehicle lane from the rest of the traffic. The HOV traffic moved faster. Fewer cars, more visibility. I’d hide in the slow-moving right lane or in the middle. I’d want to exit if things got too hot.

The helicopter veered left.

“What’s going on?” I said into the phone.

“A white truck took the exit to Barker Cypress. The camera caught something white in the window.” Bug’s voice vibrated with tension.

“Should I take the exit?” Bern asked.

To exit or not? Swinging off the highway onto the side street was a good strategy. It would get Vincent away from the focus of our search.

“Nevada?”

The exit waited just ahead. I would get off the highway in his place, but I wouldn’t do it with the chopper overhead. Too risky. And if it was the right truck, Rogan would handle it.

“I need an answer,” Bern said.

“No. Stay in the lane.”

We crept forward. This was awful, even for Houston. Something had to be going on ahead, roadwork, an accident, some disaster to account for this crawl.

“The truck sped up,” Bug reported. “They are chasing it down.”

Greenhouse Road.

“I’m getting the feed now. It’s the right truck.”