Burn
For Me
A
Hidden Legacy Novel
By
Ilona Andrews
On-Sale
10/28/2014
Book
Description:
Nevada
Baylor is faced with the most challenging case of her detective
career-a suicide mission to bring in a suspect in a volatile case.
Nevada isn’t sure she has the chops. Her quarry is a Prime, the
highest rank of magic user, who can set anyone and anything on fire.
Then
she’s kidnapped by Connor “Mad” Rogan-a darkly tempting
billionaire with equally devastating powers. Torn between wanting to
run or surrender to their overwhelming attraction, Nevada must join
forces with Rogan to stay alive.
Rogan’s
after the same target, so he needs Nevada. But she’s getting under
his skin, making him care about someone other than himself for a
change. And, as Rogan has learned, love can be as perilous as death,
especially in the magic world.
Special Excerpt:
Chapter 1
All
men are
liars. All
women are
liars, too.
I learned
that fact
when I
was two
years old
and my
grandmother
told me
that if
I was
a good
girl and
sat still,
the shot
the doctor
was about
to give
me wouldn’t
hurt. It
was the
first time
my young
brain
connected
the
unsettling
feel-
ing of
my magic
talent
detecting a
lie to
the actions
of other
people.
People
lie for
many
reasons: to
save
themselves,
to get
out of
trouble, to
avoid
hurting
someone’s
feelings.
Manipulators
lie to
get what
they want.
Narcissists
lie to
make
themselves
seem grand
to others
and
themselves.
Recovering
alcoholics
lie to
safeguard
their
tattered
repu-
tations.
And those
who love
us most
lie to
us most
of all,
because
life is
a bumpy
ride and
they want
to smooth
it out
as much as
possible.
John Rutger
lied because
he was
a scumbag.
Nothing about
his
appearance
said, Hey,
I’m a
despi-
cable human
being. As
he stepped
out of
the hotel
eleva- tor,
he seemed
like a
perfectly
pleasant
man. Tall
and fit,
he had
brown,
slightly
wavy hair
with just
enough grey
on his temples
to make
him look
distinguished.
His face
was the
kind of
face you
would
expect a
successful,
athletic
man in
his forties
to have:
masculine,
clean-shaven,
and
confident.
He was
that
handsome,
well-dressed
dad at
the junior
football
league
yelling
encouragements
at his
kid. He
was the
trusted
stockbroker
who would
never steer
his clients
wrong.
Smart,
successful,
solid as a
rock. And
the
beautiful
redhead
holding
hands with
him was
not his
wife.
John’s wife
was named
Liz, and
two days
ago she
hired me
to find
out if
he was
cheating on
her. She
had caught
him
cheating
before, ten
months ago,
and she’d
told him
that his
next one
would be
his last.
John and the
redhead drifted
across the
hotel
lobby.
I sat
in the
lobby’s
lounge
area, half
hidden
behind a
bushy
plant, and
pretended
to be
absorbed in
my cell
phone,
while the
small
digital
camera
hidden in
my black
crocheted
purse
recorded
the
lovebirds.
The purse
had been
chosen
precisely
for its
decorative
holes.
Rutger and
his date
stopped a
few feet
away from
me. I
furiously
shot birds
at the
snide green
pigs on
my screen.
Move along,
nothing to
see here,
just a
young blond
woman
playing
with her
phone by
some
shrubbery.
“I love
you,” the
redhead said.
True.
Deluded
fool.
The pigs
laughed at
me. I
really sucked
at this
game. “I
love you
too,” he
told her,
looking
into her
eyes.
A familiar
irritation
built
inside me,
as if
an
invisible
fly
was buzzing
around my
head. My
magic
clicked.
John was
lying.
Surprise, surprise.
I felt
so sorry
for Liz.
They had
been
married for
nine years,
with two
children,
an
eight-year-old
boy and
a four-
year-old
girl. She
showed me
the
pictures when
she hired me. Now
their
marriage
was about
to sink
like the
Ti-
tanic,
and I was
watching
the iceberg
approach.
“Do you
mean that?”
the redhead
asked,
looking at
him with
complete
adoration.
“Yes. You
know I do.”
Magic
buzzed again. Lie.
Most people
found lying
stressful.
Distorting
the truth
and coming
up with
a plausible
alternative
version of
re- ality
required a
good memory
and an
agile mind.
When John
Rutger
lied, he
did it
to your
face,
looking
straight
into your
eyes. And
he seemed
really convincing.
“I wish
we could
be
together,”
the redhead
said. “I’m
tired of
hiding.”
“I know.
But now
isn’t the
right time.
I’m
working on
it. Don’t
worry.”
My cousins
had run
his
lineage.
John wasn’t
connected
to any
of the
important
magical
families
whose
corpora-
tions owned
Houston. He
had no
criminal
history,
but still
something
about the
way he
carried
himself set
me on
edge. My
instincts
said he
was
dangerous,
and I
trusted my
instincts.
We also
ran a
credit
check. John
couldn’t
afford a
di- vorce.
His record
as a
stockbroker was acceptable
but not
stellar. He
was
mortgaged
up to
the gills.
What wealth
he had
was tied
up in
stocks, and
divvying
them up
would be
expensive.
He knew
it too
and took
pains to
cover his
tracks. He
and the
redhead had
arrived in
separate
cars twenty
minutes
apart. He’d
probably
let her
leave
first, and,
judging by
the tense
line of
his back,
this open
dis- play
of
affection
in the
lobby
wasn’t
part of
his plan.
The redhead
opened her
mouth, and
John bent
down and
dutifully kissed her.
Liz would
pay us
a thousand
dollars
when I
brought her the proof.
It was
all she
could get
her hands
on without
John
knowing
about it.
It wasn’t
much, but
we weren’t
in a
position to
turn down
work, and
as far
as jobs
went, this
one was
simple.
Once they
walked out
of the
hotel, I’d
leave
through the
side exit,
notify Liz,
and collect
our fee.
The hotel
doors swung
open and
Liz Rutger
walked into
the lobby.
All my
nerves came
to
attention.
Why? Why
don’t
people ever
listen to
me? We
had
expressly
agreed that
she
wouldn’t
do any
sleuthing
on her
own.
Nothing
good ever
came of it.
Liz saw
them
kissing and
went white
as a
sheet. John
let go
of his
mistress,
his face
shocked.
The redhead
stared at
Liz,
horrified.
“This isn’t
what it
looks
like,”
John said.
It was
exactly
what it
looked
like.
“Hi!” Liz
said,
shockingly
loud, her
voice
brittle.
“Who are
you?
Because I’m
his wife!”
The redhead
turned and
fled
into the
depths of
the hotel.
Liz turned
to her
husband.
“You.”
“Let’s not
do this
here.”
“Now you’re
concerned with
appearances?
Now?”
“Elizabeth.”
His voice
vibrated
with
command.
Uh-oh. “You
ruined us.
You ruined
everything.”
“Listen . . .”
She opened
her mouth.
The words
took a
second to
come out,
as if she
had to
force them.
“I want a
divorce.”
I’ve been
working for
the family
business
since I
was
seventeen,
and I
saw the
precise
moment
adrenaline
hit John’s
system.
Some guys
get
red-faced
and start
scream-
ing. Some
might
freeze—those are your
fear
biters.
Push too
far and
they will
go crazy.
John Rutger
went flat.
All
emotions
drained
from his
face. His
eyes opened
wide,
and behind
them a
hard,
calculating
mind
evaluated
the
situation
with icy
precision.
“Okay,” John
said
quietly.
“Let’s
talk about
this. It’s
more than
us. It’s
also the
kids. Come,
I’ll take
you home.”
He reached
for her
arm.
“Don’t touch
me,” she
hissed.
“Liz,” he
said, his
voice
perfectly
reasonable,
his eyes
focused and
predatory,
like the
hard stare
of a
sniper
sight- ing
his target.
“This
isn’t a
conversation
for the
hotel
lobby.
Don’t
make a
scene.
We’re
better than
that. I’ll
drive.”
There was
no way
I could
let Liz
get into
his car.
His eyes
told me
that if
I let
him gain
control of
her, I
would never
see her
again.
I moved
fast and
put myself
between
them. “Nevada?”
Liz blinked, thrown off
track.
“Walk
away,” I
told her.
“Who is
this?”
John
focused on
me.
That’s right,
look at
me, don’t
look at
her. I’m
a bigger
threat. I
body-blocked
Liz,
keeping
myself
between
them. “Liz,
go to
your car.
Don’t
drive home.
Go to
a family
member’s house.
Now.”
Muscles on
John’s
jaw bulged
as he
locked his
teeth. “What?”
Liz stared
at me.
“You hired
her to
spy on
me.” John
shrugged
his shoul-
ders and
turned his
neck like
a fighter
loosening
himself for
a fight.
“You
brought her
into our
private life.”
“Now!” I
barked. Liz
turned and
fled.
I raised
my hands
in the
air and
backed away
toward the
exit,
making sure
the camera
in the
hotel lobby
had me
in plain
view.
Behind me
the door
hissed as
Liz made
a break for
it.
“It’s over,
Mr. Rutger.
I’m not
a threat.”
“You nosy
bitch. You
and that
harpy are
in it
together.”
At the
desk the
concierge
frantically
mashed
buttons on
a phone.
If I’d
been on
my own,
I would
have turned
and run.
Some people
stand their
ground no
matter
what. In
my line
of work,
a stint
at the
hospital,
coupled
with a
bill you
can’t pay
because
you’re
not
working,
cures that
notion
really
fast. Given
a chance,
I’d run
like a
rabbit, but
I had
to buy
Liz time to
get to
her car.
John raised
his arms,
bent at
the elbow,
palms up,
fin- gers
apart, as
if he
was holding
two
invisible
softballs
in his
hands. The
mage pose.
Oh shit.
“Mr. Rutger,
don’t do
this.
Adultery
isn’t
illegal.
You haven’t
committed
any crimes
yet. Please
don’t do
this.”
His eyes
stared at
me, cold
and hard. “You
can still
walk away
from this.”
“You thought
you could
humiliate
me. You
thought
you’d
embarrass
me.” His
face
darkened as
ghostly
magic
shadows
slid across
his skin.
Tiny red
sparks
ignited
above his
palms and
flared.
Bright
crimson
lightning
danced,
stretching
to the
tips of his
fingers.
Where the
hell was
the hotel
security? I
couldn’t
take him
down
first—it
would be
an assault,
and we
couldn’t
afford to
be sued—but they
could.
“Let me
show you
what
happens to
people who
try to
humiliate
me.”
I dashed to
the side.
Thunder pealed.
The glass
doors of
the hotel
shattered.
The blast
wave picked
me up
off the
floor. I
saw the
chair from
the lounge
fly
at me
and I
threw my
hands up,
curl- ing
in midair.
The wall
smashed
into my
right
shoulder.
The chair
hit my
side and
face. Ow.
I crashed
down next
to the
shards of
a ceramic
pot that had held
a plant two
seconds ago,
then I
scrambled to my
feet.
The red
sparks
ignited
again. He
was getting
ready for
Round Two.
They say
a
hundred-and-thirty-pound
woman
has no
chance
against an
athletic
two-hundred-pound
man. That’s
a lie.
You just
have to
make a
decision to
hurt him
and then do
it.
I grabbed
a heavy
pot shard
and hurled
it at
him. It
crashed
against his
chest,
knocking
him off
balance. I
ran to
him,
yanking a
Taser from
my pocket.
He swung
at me.
It was
hard and
fast, and
it caught
me right
in the
stomach.
Tears
swelled in
my eyes.
I lunged
forward and
jammed the
Taser
against his
neck.
The shock
surged
through him.
His eyes
bulged.
Please let
him go
down.
Please.
His mouth
gaped open.
John went
rigid and
crashed
like a log.
I knelt
on his
neck,
pulled a
plastic tie
from my
pocket, and
wrestled his
hands together,
tying them up.
John growled.
I sat
next to him
on the
floor.
My face
hurt.
Two
men
burst
from
the
side
doors
and
ran
to
us.
Their
jackets
said
security.
Well,
now
they
show
up.
Thank
God
for
the cavalry.
In the distance
police
sirens
blared.
Sgt.
Munoz, a
stocky man
twice my
age, peered
at the
security footage.
He’d
watched it
twice
already.
“I couldn’t
let him
put her
into the
car,” I
said from
my spot
in the
chair. My
shoulder
hurt and
the
handcuffs
on my
hands kept
me from
rubbing it.
Being in
close prox-
imity to
cops filled
me with
anxiety. I
wanted to
fidget,
but fidgeting
would make
me look
nervous.
“You were
right,”
Munoz said
and tapped
the screen,
pausing on
John Rutger
reaching
for his
wife. “That
right there
is your
dead
giveaway.
The man’s
caught with
his pants
down and
he doesn’t
say,
‘Sorry, I
fucked up.’
He doesn’t
beg for
forgiveness
or get
angry. He
goes cold
and tries
to get
his wife
out of
the picture.”
“I didn’t
provoke
him. I
didn’t
put my
hands on
him either,
until he
tried to
kill me.”
“I see
that.” He
turned to
me. “That’s
a C2
Taser
you’ve
got there.
You do
know range
on those
things is
fifteen
feet?”
“I didn’t
want to
take chances.
His magic
looked
elec-
trical to
me, and I
thought he
might block
the current.”
Munoz shook
his head.
“No, he
was
enerkinetic.
Straight
magic
energy, and
education
to use
it,
courtesy of
the U.S.
Army. This
guy is a
vet.”
“Ah.” That
explained
why Rutger
went flat.
Dealing
with
adrenaline
was nothing
new to him.
The fact
that he
was an
enerkinetic
made sense
too.
Pyrokinetics
manipu-
lated fire,
aquakinetics
manipulated
water, and
enerkinet-
ics
manipulated
raw magical
energy.
Nobody was
quite sure
what the
nature of
that energy
was, but
it was
a rela-
tively
common
magic. How
in the
world did
Bern miss
all this
in the
background
check? When
I got
home, my
cousin and
I would
have to
have words.
A uniformed
cop stuck
his head
in the
door and
handed my
license
back to
Munoz. “She
checks
out.”
Munoz unlocked
my cuffs,
took them
off, and
handed me
my purse
and camera.
My cell
and my
wallet fol-
lowed.
“We
have
your
statement,
and we
took
your memory card.
You’ll
get it back
later. Go
home, put some
ice on
that neck.”
I grinned
at him.
“Are you
going to
tell me
not to
leave town,
Sarge?”
Munoz
gave me
a “yet
another
smart-ass”
look. “No.
You went
up against
a
military-grade
mage for
a grand.
If you
need the
money that
bad, you
probably
can’t
afford the
gas.”
Three
minutes
later I
climbed
into my
five-year-old
Mazda
minivan.
The
paperwork
described
Mazda’s
color as
“gold.”
Everyone else
said it was
“kind of
champagne”
or “sort
of beige.”
Coupled
with
unmistakable
mom car
lines, the
minivan
made for
a perfect
surveillance
vehicle.
Nobody paid
it any
mind. I
once
followed a
guy for
two hours
in it
on a
nearly
deserted
highway,
and when
the
insurance
company
later
showed him
the footage
demon- strating
that his
knee worked
just fine
as he
shifted
gears in
his El
Camino, he
was
terribly
surprised.
I
turned the
mirror. A
big red
welt that
would
mature into
one hell
of a
purple
bruise
blossomed
on my
neck and
the top
of my
right
shoulder,
like
someone
took a
hand- ful
of
blueberries
and rubbed
it all
over me.
An equally
bright red
stain
marked my
jaw on
the left
side. I
sighed,
readjusted
the mirror, and headed home.
Some
easy job
this turned
out to
be. At
least I
didn’t
have to
go to
the
hospital. I
grimaced.
The welt
decided it
didn’t
like me
grimacing. Ow.
The
Baylor
Investigative
Agency
started as
a family
business. We
still were
a family
business. Technically we
were owned
by someone
else now,
but they
mostly left
us alone
to run
our affairs
as we
saw fit.
We had
only three
rules. Rule
#1: we
stayed
bought.
Once a
client
hired us,
we were
loyal to
the client.
Rule #2:
we didn’t
break the law. It
was a
good rule.
It kept
us out
of jail
and safe
from
litigation.
And Rule
#3, the
most
important
one of
all: at
the end
of the
day we
still had
to be
able to
look our
reflec-
tions in
the eye.
I filed
today under
Rule #3
day. Maybe
I was
crazy and
John Rutger
would’ve
taken his
wife home
and begged
her
forgiveness
on bended
knee. But
at the
end of
the day,
I had
no regrets,
and I
didn’t
have to
worry about
whether I
did the
right thing
and whether
Liz’s two
children would
ever see
their mother
again.
Their father
was a
different
story, but
he was
no longer
my problem.
He made
that mess
all on
his own.
I cleared
the evening
traffic on
I-290,
heading
north-
west, and
turned
south. A
few minutes
later I
pulled up
in front
of our
warehouse.
Bern’s
beat-up
black Civic
sat in
the parking
lot, next
to Mom’s
blue Honda
Element. Oh
good.
Everyone
was home.
I parked,
went to
the door,
and punched
the code
into the
security
system. The
door
clicked
open, then
I let
myself in
and paused
for a
second to
hear the
reassuring
clang of
the lock
sliding
home behind
me.
When you
entered the
warehouse
from this
door, it
looked just
like an
office.
We built
walls,
installed
some glass
panels, and
laid down
high-traffic
beige
carpet.
That gave
us three
office
rooms on
the left
side and
a break
room and
large
conference
room on
the right.
The drop
ceiling completed
the illusion.
I stepped
into my
office,
put the
purse and
the camera
on the
desk, and
sat in
my chair.
I really
should do
a write-up,
but I
didn’t
feel like
it. I’d
do it
later.
The office
was
soundproof.
Around me
everything
was quiet.
A familiar,
faint scent
of
grapefruit
oil in
the oil
warmer
floated
to me.
The oils
were my
favorite
little
luxury. I
inhaled the
fragrance. I was
home.
I survived.
Had I
hit my
head on
the wall
when Rutger
had thrown
me, I
could’ve
died today.
Right now
I could
be dead
instead of
sitting
here in
my office,
twenty feet
from my
home. My
mom could
be in
the morgue,
iden-
tifying me
on a
slab. My
heart
pounded in
my chest.
Nausea
crept up,
squeezing
my throat.
I leaned
forward and
concentrated
on
breathing.
Deep, calm
breaths. I
just had to
let myself
work
through it.
In and out.
In and out.
Slowly the
anxiety
receded. In
and out.
Okay.
I got
up, crossed
the office
to the
break room,
opened the
door in
the back,
and stepped
into the
warehouse.
A
luxuriously
wide
hallway
stretched
left and
right, its
sealed
concrete
floor
reflecting
the light
softly. Above
me
thirty-foot
ceilings
soared.
After we
had to sell
the house
and move
into the
warehouse,
Mom and
Dad
considered
making the
inside look
just like
a real
house.
Instead we
ended up
building
one large
wall
separating
this
section of
the
warehouse—our
living
space—from
Grandma’s
garage so
we didn’t
have to
heat or
air-condition
the entire
twenty-two
thousand
square feet
of the
warehouse.
The rest
of the
walls had
occurred
organically,
which was
a gentle
euphemism
for We
put them
up as
needed with
whatever
material was
handy.
If
Mom saw
me, I
wouldn’t
get away
without a
thor- ough
medical
exam. All
I wanted
to do
was take
a shower
and eat
some food.
This time
of the
day she
was usually
with
Grandma,
helping her
work. If
I was
really
quiet, I
could just
sneak into
my room.
I padded
down the
hall- way.
Think
sneaky
thoughts
.
.
.
Be
invisible
.
.
.
Hope-
fully,
nothing attention-attracting
was going
on.
“I’ll kill
you!” a
familiar
high voice
howled from
the right.
Damn it.
Arabella,
of course.
My youngest
sister was
in rare
form,
judging by
the pitch.
“That’s real
mature!”
And that
was
Catalina,
the
seventeen-year-old.
Two years
older than
Arabella
and eight
years
younger
than me.
I had
to break
this up
before Mom
came over
to inves-
tigate. I
sped down
the hallway
toward the
media room.
“At least
I’m not
a dumb ho
who has no
friends!”
“At least
I’m not
fat!”
“At least
I am not
ugly!”
Neither of
them was
fat, ugly,
or
promiscuous.
They both
were
complete
drama
queens, and
if I
didn’t
quash this
party up
fast, Mom
would be on
us in
seconds.
“I hate you!”
I walked
into the
media room.
Catalina,
thin and
dark-
haired,
stood on
the right,
her arms
crossed
over her
chest. On
the left
Bern very
carefully
restrained
blond
Arabella by
holding her
by her
waist above
the floor.
Ara- bella
was really
strong, but
Bern had
wrestled
through
high school
and went
to a
judo club
twice a
week. Now
nineteen
and still
growing, he
stood an
inch over
six feet
tall and
weighed
about two
hundred
pounds,
most of
it
powerful,
supple
muscle.
Holding a
hundred-pound
Ara- bella
wasn’t a
problem.
“Let me
go!”
Arabella snarled.
“Think about
what you’re
doing,”
Bern said,
his deep
voice
patient.
“We
agreed—no
violence.”
“What is
it this
time?” I
asked.
Catalina stabbed
her finger
in
Arabella’s
direction.
“She
never put
the cap
on my
liquid
foundation.
Now it’s
dried out!”
Figured. They
never
fought
about
anything important. They
never stole
from each
other, they
never tried
to sab-
otage each
other’s
relationships,
and if
anyone
dared to
look at
one of
them the
wrong way,
the other
one would
be the
first to
charge to
her
sister’s
defense.
But if
one of
them took
the other’s
hairbrush and
didn’t
clean it,
it was
World War
III.
“That’s
not true .
. .”
Arabella
froze. “Neva,
what hap-
pened to
your face?”
Everything
stopped.
Then
everyone
said
something
at once,
really loud.
“Shush!
Calm down;
it’s
cosmetic. I
just need
a shower.
Also, stop
fighting.
If you
don’t,
Mom will
come here
and I
don’t
want her
to—”
“To
what?”
Mom walked
through the
door,
limping a
lit- tle.
Her leg
was
bothering
her again.
Of average
height, she
used to be
lean and
muscular,
but the
injury had grounded her.
She was
softer now,
with a
rounder
face. She
had dark
eyes like
me, but
her hair
was
chestnut
brown.
Grandma
Frida
followed,
about my
height,
thin, with
a halo
of platinum
curls
stained
with
machine
grease. The
familiar,
comforting
smell of
engine oil,
rubber, and
gun- powder
spread
through the
room.
Grandma
Frida saw
me and
her blue
eyes got
really big.
Oh no.
“Penelope, why
is the baby
hurt?”
Best defense
is vigorous
offense.
“I’m
not a
baby. I’m
twenty-five
years old.”
I was
Grandma’s
first
grandchild.
If she
lived until
I turned
fifty,
with
grandchildren
of my
own, I’d
still be “the
baby.”
“How did
this
happen?”
Mom asked.
Damn it.
“Magic
blast wave,
wall, and a
chair.”
“Blast
wave?”
Bern asked.
“The Rutger
case.”
“I thought
he was
a dud.”
I shook
my head.
“Enerkinetic magic.
He was
a vet.”
Bern’s face
fell. He
frowned and
marched out
of the
room.
“Arabella, get
the
first-aid
kit,” Mom
said.
“Nevada,
lie down.
You may
have a
concussion.”
Arabella took
off
running.
“It’s not
that bad! I
don’t
have a
concussion.”
My mother turned
and looked
at me. I
knew that
look.
That was
the Sgt.
Baylor
look. There
was no
escape.
“Did
paramedics look
at you
at the
scene?”
“Yes.”
“What did
they say?”
There was
no point
in lying.
“They
said I
should go
to the
hospital
just in
case.”
My mother
pinned me
down with
her stare.
“Did
you?”
“No.”
“Lie down.”
I sighed
and surrendered to
my fate.
The
next
morning I
sat in
the media
room,
eating the
crepes and
sausages
Mom made
for me.
My neck
still hurt.
My side
hurt worse.
Mom sat
at the
other end
of the
sectional,
sipping her
coffee and
working on
Arabella’s
hair.
Apparently
the latest
fashion
among
middle
schoolers
involved
elabo- rate
braids, and
Arabella
had somehow
cajoled Mom
into
helping
her.
On the
left side
of the
screen, a
female news
anchor with
impossibly
perfect
hair
profiled
the recent
arson at
First
National,
while the
right side
of the
screen
showed a
tornado of
fire
engulfing
the
building.
The orange
flames
billowed
out the
windows.
“It’s awful,”
Mom said.
“Did
anybody
die?” I
asked.
“A
security
guard. His
wife and
their two
children
came by
to drop
off his
dinner and
were also
burned, but
they
survived.
Apparently
Adam Pierce
was
involved.”
Everyone
in Houston
knew who
Adam Pierce
was. Magic
users were
segregated
into five
ranks:
Minor,
Aver- age,
Notable,
Significant,
and Prime.
Born with
a rare
py-
rokinetic
talent,
Pierce had
Stainless
Steel
classification.
A
pyrokinetic
was
considered
Average if
he could
melt a
cubic foot
of ice
under a
minute. In
the same
amount of
time, Adam
Pierce
could
conjure a
fire that
would melt
a cubic
foot of
stainless
steel. That
made Pierce
a Prime,
the highest
rank of
magic user.
Everybody
wanted him—
the military, Home
Defense,
and the private
sector.
A
wealthy, established
family, the
Pierces
owned Fire-
bug, Inc.,
the leading
provider of
industrial
forging
prod- ucts.
Adam,
handsome
and
magically
spectacular,
was the
pride and
joy of
House
Pierce.
He’d
grown up
wrapped in
tender
luxury, had
gone to
all the
right
schools,
had worn
all the
right
clothes,
and his
future had
had golden
sparkles
all over
it. He’d
been the
rising star
and the
most
eligible
bachelor.
Then, at
the ripe
age of
twenty-two,
he’d
given them
all the
finger,
declared
himself a
radical,
and gone
off to
start a
motorcycle
gang.
Since
then Pierce
had been
popping up
in the
news for
one thing
or another,
usually
involving
cops,
crime, and
antiestablishment
declarations.
The media
loved him,
be- cause
his name
brought
ratings.
As
if on
cue,
Pierce’s
portrait
filled the
right side
of the
screen. He
wore his
trademark
black jeans
and un-
zipped
black
leather
jacket over
bare,
muscled
chest. A
Celtic
knot-work
tattoo
covered his
left
pectoral,
and a snarling panther
with horns
decorated
the right
side of
his
six-pack.
Longish
brown hair
spilled
over his
beauti- ful
face,
highlighting
the world’s
best
cheekbones
and a
perfect jaw
with just
the right
amount of
stubble to
add some
scruff. If
you cleaned
him up,
he would
look almost
angelic. As
is, he
was a
tarnished
poseur
angel, his
wings
artfully
singed with
the perfect camera shot
in mind.
I’d seen
my share
of real
biker
gangsters.
Not the
week- end
bikers, who
were doctors
and lawyers
in real
life, but
the real
deal, the
ones who
lived on
the road.
They were
hard, not
too well
kept, and
their eyes
were made
of lead.
Pierce was
more like
the leading
man playing
a badass
in an
action
movie.
Lucky for
him, he
could make
his own
background
of
billowing
flames.
“Hot!”
Arabella said.
“Stop
it,” Mom
told her.
Grandma Frida
walked into
the room.
“Oooh,
here is
my boy.”
“Mother,” Mom
growled.
“What? I can’t
help it.
It’s the
devil
eyes.”
Pierce did
have devil
eyes. Deep
and dark,
the rich
brown of
coffee
grinds,
they were
unpredictable
and full
of crazy.
He was
very nice
to look
at, but
all of
the images
of him
looked
staged. He
always
seemed to
know where
the camera
was. And
if I
ever saw
him in
person, I’d
run the
other way
like my
back was
on fire.
If I
hesitated,
it would
be.
“He killed
a man,”
Mom said.
“He was
framed,”
Grandma
Frida said.
“You
don’t
even know
the story,”
Mom said.
Grandma shrugged.
“Framed.
A man
that pretty
can’t be
a murderer.”
Mother stared
at her.
“Penelope, I’m
seventy-two
years old.
You let
me enjoy
my
fantasy.”
“Go Grandma.”
Arabella
pumped her
fist in
the air.
“If you
insist on
being
Grandma’s
little
stooge, she
can
do your
hair,”
Mom said.
“We
will
return
to
the
investigation
on
the
arson
after
the
break,”
the
news
anchor
announced.
“Also,
iconic
downtown
park
infested
with
rats.”
The
image of
Bridge Park
popped on
the screen,
its
life-size
bronze
statue of
a cowboy
on a
galloping
horse front
and center.
“Should
Harris
County
officials
resort
to
drastic
mea-
sures?
More
after the break.”
Bern
walked into
the room.
“Hey,
Nevada, can
I borrow
you for
a moment?”
I
got up
and followed
him out.
Without
saying a
word, we
went down
the hallway
and into
the
kitchen. It
was the
closest
place where
Mom and
Grandma
wouldn’t
over- hear
us.
“What’s up?”
Bern ran
his hand
through his
short,
light brown
hair and
held out
a folder.
I opened
it and
scanned it.
John Rut-
ger’s
lineage,
biography,
and
background
check. A
line stood
out,
highlighted
in yellow:
Honorable
Discharge,
Sealed.
I raised
my finger.
“Aha!”
“Aha,”
Bern
confirmed.
Usually
employers
liked
hiring
ex-servicemen.
They were
punctual,
disciplined,
polite, and
capable of
making
quick
decisions
when
needed. But
combat
mages sent
the typical
HR manager
running in
the
opposite
direc-
tion.
Nobody
wanted a
guy
stressing
out in
their
office
when he
had the
ability to
summon a
host of
bloodsuck-
ing
leeches. To
circumvent
this issue,
the
Department
of Defense
started
sealing
records of
some
combat-grade
personnel.
A sealed
record
didn’t
always
meant
combat-
grade
magic, but
it would’ve
given me
a nice
heads-up. I
would’ve
approached
Rutger’s
situation
from an
entirely
different
angle.
“I screwed
up.” Bern
leaned
against the
counter.
His grey
eyes were
full of
remorse. “I
had a
modern
history
exam. It’s
not my
strongest
class, and
I needed
at least
a B
to keep
the
scholarship,
so I
had to
cram. I
gave it
to Leon.
He ran
the lineage
and the
background
check, but
forgot to
log in
to the DOD
database.”
“It’s okay,”
I told
him. Leon
was
fifteen.
Getting him
to sit
still for
longer than
thirty
seconds was
like trying
to herd
cats
through a shower.
Bern rubbed
the bridge
of his
nose. “No.
It’s not
okay. You
asked me
to do
it. I
should’ve
done it.
You got
hurt. It
won’t
happen again.”
“Don’t sweat
it,” I
told him.
“I’ve
missed
stuff
before. It
happens.
Just make
it a
point from
now on
to check
DOD. Did
you get
a B?”
He nodded.
“It’s
kind of
interesting,
actually.
Do you
know that
story about
Mrs. O’Leary’s
cow?”
I used
to really
like
history. I
even
thought of
getting a
minor in
it, but
real life
got in
the way.
“Didn’t
she knock
over a
lamp in
the barn
and start
the Great
Chicago
Fire
sometime in
the 1860s?”
“In October
of 1871,”
Bern said.
“My
professor
doesn’t
think the
cow did
it. He
thinks it
was a
mage.”
“In 1871?
The Osiris
Serum had
barely been
discov-
ered.”
“It’s a
really
interesting
theory.”
Bern
shrugged.
“You
should talk
to him
sometime.
He is
a pretty cool
guy.”
I
smiled. It
had taken
me four
years,
including
every
summer, to
limp my
way to
a criminal
justice
degree,
because I’d
had to
work. Bern
got an
academic
scholar-
ship
because he
was smarter
than all
of us
combined,
and now
he was
doing well.
He even
liked at
least one
of his
classes
outside his
major.
“There
is more,”
Bern said.
“Montgomery
wants to
see us.”
My
stomach did
a pirouette
inside me.
House Mont-
gomery owned us. When
savings and
the money
from the
sale of
our home
hadn’t
been enough
to cover
Dad’s medi-
cal bills,
we’d sold
the firm
to
Montgomery.
Technically,
it was
mortgaged.
We had a
thirty-year
repayment
term, and
every month
we squeaked
by with
the minimum
payment.
The terms
of our
mortgage
practically
made us
a subsid-
iary of
Montgomery
International
Investigations.
Mont-
gomery had
taken very
little
interest in
us up
to this
point. We
were too
small to
be of any
use to
them, and
they had
no reason
to bother
us as
long as
the check
had
cleared,
and our
checks
always
cleared. I
made sure
of that.
“They said
ASAP,”
Bern said.
“Did it
sound
routine?”
“No.”
Damn it.
“Don’t
tell Mom
or
Grandma.”
He nodded.
“They’ll
just
stress.”
“Yes.
I’ll call
you as
soon as
I find
out what
this is
about.
Hopefully
we just
forgot to
file
some form
or some-
thing.”
I
was almost
to the
door when
he called,
“Nevada?
John
Rutger’s
wife wired
the money.
A thousand
dollars, as
agreed.”
“Good,” I
said and
escaped. I
needed to
brush my
hair, make
myself
presentable,
and
hightail it
across town
to the
glass
towers.
Really, how
bad could
it be?
About
the Author:
“Ilona
Andrews” is the pseudonym for a husband-and-wife writing team.
Ilona is a native-born Russian and Gordon is a former communications
sergeant in the U.S. Army.
Contrary
to popular belief, Gordon was never an intelligence officer with a
license to kill, and Ilona was never the mysterious Russian spy who
seduced him.
They
met in college, in English Composition 101, where Ilona got a better
grade. (Gordon is still sore about that.) They have co-authored two
New York Times and USA Today bestselling series, the urban fantasy of
Kate Daniels and the romantic urban fantasy of The Edge and are
working on the next volumes for both.
They
live in Texas with their two children and many dogs and cats.
Tour Giveaway
1 print copy of BURN FOR ME along with some BURN FOR ME swag
Open to US Shipping
Direct Link:
What did Sister Sinister think?
* * * * *
I gave it 5 Stars!
* * * * *
I was thrilled when I was given the opportunity to read to review a new release by Ilona Andrews, as part of their new series Book Tour. As a fan, I jumped at the opportunity and wasn't to be let down.
"Burn for Me" gives us a world where a serum was developed hundreds of years ago that would awaken dormant powers in the human race. Now these abilities are handed down on a genetic level, through the bloodlines. Long since destroyed, with the serum gone the families of magic blood belong to Dynasty-style lineage Houses, each subsequent birth lending to stronger magical ability.
In this book, we meet Nevada Baylor, a Private Investigator with a talent, who must take on her most important - life or death - case of all, and Mad Rogan, a powerful telekinetic intent on getting Neva's assistance.
I love, love the attraction between these two characters, and the story was every bit as epic an urban fantasy as I knew it would be. Another, unsurprising, winner for Ilona Andrews! =D
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